
□ □□ 1^33470 







































































Class —- 

Book _—iHSL2i2-^- 

Gopynylit N° _——— 

COPVRIGirr deposit. 
















From die Melting Pot Into tke Mold 




















From the Melting 

Pot Into the Mold 

BY 

David A. Driscoll 



) 

> > 
) .1 » 


y 


y 


die Christopher Publishing House 
Boston, U. 5. A. 











K - ■ MA 

Copyright 1923 

By The Christopher Publishing House 


MADE INAMERICaI) 

-- j 


AUG -3 1923 


:» 

i 


C1A711459 







DEDICATION 


To my friend , John P. Barrett, whose faith in me 
helped me to have faith in myself, this 
book is affectionately dedicated 




V 





FOREWORD 


In order to keep the ages right, it was necessary to 
place the action of the book in the eighties, but the 
conditions shown were, mostly, the result of af¬ 
fairs in the seventies. cMany of the incidents, wa¬ 
ges and so forth, were not properly of a later date , 



From the Melting Pot Into the Mold 


CHAPTER I. 

The three windows of the front ground room of gloomy 
old 43 Fort Hill Square were lighted tonight, a circum¬ 
stance so unusual in the recollection of the venerable 
night watch that with each recurring round of his monoton¬ 
ous pacing of his district in the sleeping city he paused 
in mute cogitation, pondering as he mopped his sweaty 
brow and scratched his grizzled head under the uniform 
cap. He had not seen them thus in years. Time was— 
when he ran a callow youth through the place on his 
way to the wharves—when that staring fresh brick was 
not gloomy and every window shone with the radiance 
of a myriad of candles while the whole Square echoed 
with the mirth and revelry emanating therefrom. 

For years now—maybe five or six, he thought—the 
front of the house with its aristocratic bow windows had 
frowned in dingy, repellant glances, whoever tenanted 
it reserving both its work and play for the rear, gained 
by a dimly lighted area way. As the watchman stood 
and mused he saw the heavy, antique window draperies 
belly out as a door opened in the interior and swish 
back hissingly as it closed, responsive to the draught of 
a mellow, heavy spring zephyr capering at last in the 
wake of bitter winter. It swept up from harbor and 
marsh in caracoling, caressing gusts, kissing into languid 
life the enervated city dweller and softly apologizing for 
its long and untoward absence. Occasionally the shadow 
of a woman’s form walking in uncouth haste swept over 
a pane in silhouetted distinctness; he crept warily up to 
the massive iron railing and leaned in over it toward 
the nearest open window—then hurried on with a mingled 
muttered cluck of dismay and pity as long, quivering 
tones (once heard, never forgotten) of mortal agony 
wrenched themselves from between the clinched lips of 
some suffering woman. He was glad to pursue his ghostly 



10 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

way again amid groups of soldiers, country boys wandering 
aimlessly about the big city, and night prowlers, down 
past the gaunt, staring warehouses and to the water’s 
edge where he could forget his agitation in gossip with 
one of his fellows or some sailor seeking his boat after 
a night’s revelry ashore. 

One room fronting the Square still bore faded traces 
of its stately characters in the years that this was a 
fashionable niche for the wealthy Puritan, contained one 
constant occupant, a lad of probably four or five years 
who, despite the rustle of steps and rattle of doors slept 
the sleep of babyhood, huddled in one corner of an im¬ 
mense couch. Mingled with the slumber dew on his 
rosy cheeks were traces of tears shed while falling un¬ 
conscious while his tiny frame was still shaking with 
piteous sobs. 

He was a child of more than ordinary beauty despite 
his obvious distress; the thick black tresses curled crisply 
over a singularly high, snowy forehead, his cheeks were 
full and round and caressed by long, curling lashes. The 
nose was of a feminine delicacy with sensitive, quiver¬ 
ing nostrils, the mouth as if carved by an artist in a 
moment of inspiration, and beneath, a perfectly molded 
chin still twitching in its unconscious grief. Unnoticed, 
uncared for, apparently abandoned, he slept through the 
tumult of talk, hastening feet and rattling doors. 

One of these now swung back to admit a woman who 
in attire and bearing plainly denoted the incongruity of 
her presence in this erstwhile abode of the elite, who 
crept to a big chair into which she dropped wearily and 
with an illy suppressed burst of grief threw her apron 
over her head and rocking back and forth in a distinctive¬ 
ly Irish attitude of woe gave way to piteous, smothered 
lamentations. Just a neighbor woman summoned to help 
in that crisis that borne so bravely by the victim herself 
is only witnessed in another with a degree of fortitude 
unknown to the male. Again the door swung heavily 
open and two men, evidently doctors, stepped into the 
room, ignoring in professional brutality the betrayal of 
weakness in the female attendant while they put their 
heads together in private, hissing consultation. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


11 


The younger, the perplexed one with the knitted brow, 
sleeves rolled to the arm pits in business-like form, 
was Doctor Calhone, summoned in haste by the neighbors 
at the last moment but who, finding a complication rather 
beyond his interneship practice, had sent in frantic haste 
for an older and more aristocratic practictioner. Doctor 
Haselot had come in cold sympathy and languid interest 
on learning the occasion; he rendered an offhand opin¬ 
ion the moment he stepped into the chamber of the suf¬ 
ferer that she or the unborn child was to die—maybe 
both, with a brutal shrug and gesture. But Calhone the 
beginner, agonized at the prospect of an initial failure 
in a neighborhood where he had decided to locate, fought 
strongly and manfully for another decision; now, at a 
trifle past midnight, with the sweat of useless toil on 
his handsome face, tears of baffled rage in his eyes, 
even he was forced to agree with the elder that she was 
beyond human aid. 

Another woman, no longer crying but still showing 
traces in her reddened eyes of previous tears, now joined 
the baffled group and essayed an attempt at opening 
the mouth of the medical sphinx. 

“There is no hope thin, Docthor?” in forced calmness 
as she ground her hands in her apron, to Calhone; he 
shook his head with a bitter sigh. 

“None whatever my dear woman” while the senior sly¬ 
ly grinned at the baptism of the youth, “Better summon 
her husband.” At which command her eyes flamed with 
a wicked light and her thin lips tightened as a mute in¬ 
dication of what would happen her liege lord did he 
have to be summoned at a moment every human consid¬ 
eration commanded his willing presence. 

“I’ll sind f’r ’m” she said so masterfully as to draw 
on her the admiring looks even of the medical men, “An’ 
th’ priest” at which the elder grimaced sarcastically, 
coughed blandly, snapped open the lid of his jeweled 
snuff box, tendered it to his crushed colleague (who im¬ 
patiently rejected it), took a hearty pinch himself, re¬ 
gained his massive beaver, threw his long cloak about 
his gigantic form, clasped his immense, gold headed cane, 
bowed gravely to the bewildered Calhone and wishing 


12 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


him a curt “good night” stalked from the presence of 
death as imperturbably as from the library of a friend. 
“Do you go t’ th’ kitchen an’ rouse Larry, aveelish ” 
pursued the speaker at length turning on the still weep¬ 
ing woman in the chair who dropped her apron and 
bestirred herself to do the bidding of the capable one. 

She was back in a moment followed by a young fel¬ 
low of about twenty, bravely trying to pull himself to¬ 
gether after his rude awakening on the wash bench where 
he had cast himself earlier in the evening and where he 
had been permitted to slumber during the excitement 
until the time he might be of service. It was the “green¬ 
horn,” Larry Coleman, even in his distress grinning the 
innocent, propitiatory grin that speedily won him favor 
anywhere, ready and willing for any venture that offer¬ 
ed the opening to show his worth in the land of his adop¬ 
tion. He was clear eyed, smooth faced, ruddy cheeked. 

“All right Mar’gret” with a gigantic yawn that fairly 
racked his body, “What is it?” The young doctor had 
turned to his charge on hearing a long distressed moan. 

“Where do’ye think ye’ll find himseT at this hour?” she 
demanded with the acidity that left no doubt as to whom 
Himself might be and roused the lad effectually; Larry 
balanced himself judicially, one hand on his hip and the 
other currying his wilderness of frouzed hair while he 
cogitated. 

“It’s too late f’r th’ Museum I’m thinkin’ ” he mur¬ 
mured in his soft, caressing tones, “An’ he’s had his supper 
be this, hasn’t he?” in a semi query she saw fit to ig¬ 
nore, “An’ so I’m thinkin’ ”—deferentially that he might 
not be guilty of thinking when she did not— “so he 
might be buckin’ th’ tiger, savin’ y’r prisince.” 

“Thin hunt ’m avick ” she coaxed, “Not that he’s anny 
binifit here God knows but f’r th’ sake of appearances. 
An’ do you ’ turning again on the sniffing woman, “R-run 
down t’ Saint James’ f’r th’ priest.” 

Now this latter was a command to quibble over under 
ordinary circumstances for the long trip in that section 
of the city at any hour of the night by a “decent” woman 
was one fraught not only with the tangible possibilities 
of insult from roistering soldiers but the intangible noth- 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 13 

ings that based on cold hints and innuendoes cling for¬ 
ever; but this was no ordinary occasion and merely 
returning a soft “all right” equal in valor to the much 
lauded “Aye, aye sir” of the man facing death, she turn¬ 
ed to run from the room merely pausing long enough to 
pick up her Cashmere shawl and wrap it securely over 
her head. 

Out High Street to Essex she ran with the salt breezes 
wafted gratefully to nostrils saturated with the sick room 
odors, dropping into a walk only when her breath be¬ 
gan to come in sobs, thence to Harrison Avenue just be¬ 
ginning to assume that shape of cosmopolitanism that 
later merged into a show town of transplanted China and 
so in a southerly way past Beach Street and across Knee- 
land, ignoring the calls of the few prowlers now visible, 
until she gained the parsonage of the venerable Saint 
James’ Church. Her vehement and persistent pulls on 
the bell cord alternated with resounding swings of the 
knocker, were rewarded finally by the thrusting out an 
up stairs window of the head of the pastor, Father 
DeRoule. 

“What is it?” he demanded in sleepy hoarse tones. 

“Mrs. Coggeshall’s dyin’—given up be two docthors— 
43 Fort Hill, Father” she gasped breathlessly. 

“Aye?” he said as if trying to recall the woman. 

“Nancy Coggeshall sir—’twas you marrit thim sor” 
she explained. He returned an exclamation of under¬ 
standing. 

“I know, I know” and as he pulled his head inside, 
“You need not wait my good woman, I’ll have to go 
into the church.” Satisfied with this, from a man who 
had not only popularized himself amidst his big flock by 
constant samples of just such devotion to the cause of 
his Master, but who had done much to disarm suspicion 
and elevate the cause of his religion in a locality where 
bigotry and prejudice still held sway. 

She went back at a much slower jog than that char¬ 
acterizing her going out as, not being molded along those 
lines that speak for endurance and speed combined, she 
was now beginning to feel the effects of her marathon; 
scarcely had she set foot on the lower step of 43 than 


14 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


she heard the rapid steps of the good man himself coming 
at a pretty good gait for one of his advanced age. To¬ 
gether they entered the once grand room tenanted by 
the frankly grieving woman and the harried young doc¬ 
tor who, mentally and physically exhausted by his all 
night vigil and the woe of a losing fight, drooped bleakly 
in a chair, his cheeks haggard, his hair rumpled and his 
bare arms twitching in impotent neurotic affection. 

The gray haired Priest exchanged a few words with 
him while the women put the finishing touches to prepara¬ 
tions for the administering of the Sacraments and then 
followed them into the now silent chamber, no longer 
echoing to the strains of the curse of Eve, ghastly in 
its import; Doctor Calhone, now satisfied as to the futility 
' of his ministrations, rolled down his sleeves and soberly 
donned his outer garments, the prey of bitter emotions. 
He paused a moment to gaze with unfeigned pity at the 
still slumbering child totally oblivious to the impending 
catastrophe—then with a sorrowful shake of his fine 
head, silently quitted the house. 

Meanwhile Larry was doing his part; making his way 
rapidly to Tremont Street he proceeded to Bowdoin 
Square whence he turned sharply to his left to swing 
into Howard Street. Previous experiences with the re¬ 
calcitrant Coggeshall prompted a shrewd reasoning run¬ 
ning about as follows:— 

Earlier in the evening he was pretty sure to be at the 
Museum watching the latest dancer; then there would 
be a Bohemian supper given by him or one of his brother 
roues; succeeding these—that is between midnight and 
dawn—he could be found in a gambling den recouping 
his expenditures of the earlier hours, for Nehemiah Cogge¬ 
shall, tutored in the salons and stews of the Continent, 
was a notorious card sharper. If Larry failed to locate 
him among the few places he suspected on Howard Street 
he could go to Green Street; after that—he shrugged to 
himself—she would have to die deprived of his presence. 

He made three fruitless stops at places where it took 
all the allurement of his blarneyed tongue to prove his 
innocent avocation to the wary lookouts, unreservedly 
confiding to them that far from being a reformer, spy or 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


15 


detective lie was in search of a man well known in those 
haunts, that he merely craved permission to acquaint a 
great swell with the disconcerting news that the woman 
he had sworn to love and cherish was passing out of his 
reach; with alien hands closing the weary eyes and strange 
voices praying for a safe homecoming of one whose 
home on earth he had so long desecrated. 

In a little blind alley off Green Street to which he 
was directed by a victim of his “sootherin’ tongue” he 
was successful; again he rehearsed the plaintive details 
of the sordid family affair until his earnest manner and 
seductive pleading convinced the case hardened scoundrel 
guarding the portals of an earthly hell that he was sin¬ 
cere; he permitted him to enter. He pointed the way 
down a magnificently tapestried hall where the astounded 
greenhorn was for the first time permitted a view of those 
traces of magnificent luxury and debauchery allied to 
criminal wealth. 

The place fairly reeked of a highly scented atmosphere, 
hot liquor odors, nauseous perfumes mingling with ex¬ 
halations of tobacco and human frames, while the room 
rang with the blasphemous cries and profane ejacula¬ 
tions of the sodden inmates of the den; taking his arm 
the guide led him to a door at the head of the stairs 
which opening at his signal permitted Larry to enter as 
he turned back to his post. For a moment the lad paused 
in comical dismay at the scene, trying to accustom him¬ 
self to the hazy bodies long enough to pick out his quarry; 
at length he believed he was successful and then with a 
comical assumption of care he tip-toed across the heavily 
carpeted room striving to render his entrance inconspicu¬ 
ous, little knowing that nothing less than a fire or ex¬ 
plosion could take their attention off the game over which 
they hung in wild eyed feverishness. 

Coggeshall was winning—as usual—and showed it 
plainly by reason of his drink; with him success with 
cards was a stern necessity for it constituted the only 
means by which a “gentleman” could honorably derive 
an income and thus acquire those luxuries his asthetic 
soul craved, nay demanded. He turned in savage im¬ 
patience in response to Larry’s persistent and forcible tug 
at his arm. 


16 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Well?” he growled with a coarse oath, that bad 
enough in anyone seems to become more sinister emana¬ 
ting from the mouth of the educated and one not sup¬ 
posed to be exposed to it in early environment, “What 
the deuce do you want, fellow?” Oblivious to the impatient, 
amused and curious glances his presence now aroused, Larry 
bent over him. 

“Mrs. Coggeshall’s been confined sor” he whispered 
hoarsely, “An’ th’ docthors sez she’ll die—” at which with 
another oath, Coggeshall dashed his hand of cards on 
the table and the flush of liquor on his face gave way 
to a dazed, sickly hue. 

“What say?” he demanded thickly at last as, half 
turning in his chair, he looked up and around at the 
blushing Larry—aware that the glances of the entire table 
were now upon them; he didn’t seem to grasp the portent 
of the stunning communication. Again Larry said it and 
comprehending now he slowly arose, almost sobered by 
the shock. 

“Make my account Austin” curtly to the house dealer 
with an incisive coolness one could scarcely expect in 
view of his recent approach to inebriation. “Sickness 
at home—I—I will have to beg leave to retire” with the 
charming observation of the punctilio of a scoundrel. “I’ll 
give you your revenge at the first opportunity, Colonel 
Trask,” with a courtly bow to that polished blackguard 
who, rising with the same formal pretense of gentility and 
a rake’s proprieties to prove himself as polite a rascal 
as the clever Coggeshall, returned the bow, reseated him¬ 
self gravely and in the same breath that he asked a new 
deal murmured polite hopes for the sick member of the 
family—then set out to retrieve the night’s losses at 
the expense of someone as helpless in his hands as he 
was in Coggeshall’s. 

Totally oblivious to the presence of the messenger and 
scorning to demean himself by an enquiry that might 
give an excuse to trespass on the affairs of a gentleman, 
Coggeshall threw his clock about his half military clad 
form, stalked from the room without a word to anyone, 
dropped down the stairs out past the guard into the 
balmy, spring night, a trifle cooler now with a breeze 
from the harbor, followed with soldier-like preciseness at 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


17 


a few paces by the good Larry, sleepy and tired, but 
immensely pleased with the success of his errand. The 
ozone laden breeze from the bay aroused the gambler like 
a plunge in the water and shivering as if with cold he 
drew his cloak more closely about him and with a string 
of muttered curses on his ill fortune, strode rapidly along. 

What if she were to die—what if she were to die? Over 
and over this stunning solution of his nasty domestic 
relations hummed through his obscene brain, with all the 
more tumult and delirium by reason of the fact that in 
all his bitter chafing at the galling chains of matrimony, 
long since grown irksome, there had never loomed the 
shadow of a hope for such a blessed consummation. She 
was so young and vigorous, so imbued with the wine 
of health and the strength of a good conscience, so sturdy 
in the face of his brutal abuse, that he had come to under¬ 
estimate the power of his villainy and overlooked the 
fact that her immortal soul was in a mortal frame; never 
had it dawned on him that as the door of the tomb swung 
open for her it swung outward for him, to cherished 
freedom. 

Divorce was not to be thought of—not that it violated 
a moral canon, but simply because it dragged aristocracy 
into the same course publicity as the front door step and 
back yard. “What if she were to die?” he asked him¬ 
self in dreamy whispers and the tensity of his feelings 
at that easy escape was made manifest in the torrent of 
heated, brutal oaths that soared up from the very depths 
of his sodden soul. 

Not a solitary pulse beat of pity for the untimely fate, 
not a gleam of sorrow for the passing of the being 
whom he had wooed on his knees and in a passion of 
fervid tears—not one. She had long since ceased to 
amuse with her innocent, graceful gaiety, he willed that 
she might be torn from him that he might plunge back 
into the pool of filthy, unfettered, unchided sin—her very 
virtue tormented him! So, with echoing footsteps through 
some of the deserted streets, some filled with soldiers 
idling along, he passed on distracted, bewildered, stifled 
in the weight of the newly aroused hopes. 

His brain was a Vesuvius: long before he quitted Tre- 


18 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


mont Street he was roaming in imagination from this 
bleak existence to that of the time the mother of his babes 
was unknown to him and he still basked in the criminally 
tender rays of his doting parents’ love. Even when he 
had been elected Captain of the company of Harvard 
graduates she had come between him and his bliss, for 
with the possibility of redemption in the eyes of his as¬ 
sociates she held him back by her ordinary presence. His 
heart began to pound fiercely at the thought of the ine¬ 
vitable reconciliation with the proud old mother eating 
her selfish heart out in bleak grandeur in the old home, 
totally irreconcilable while he rested at anchor with the 
vulgar plebeian he had married in defiance of her wishes. 
Oh the joy of telling her that he was free! 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

Winthrop Coggeshall, the sire, had not been born with 
a silver spoon in his mouth; nor had he gone aboard the 
craft he commanded later through the cabin window, but 
shipping as cook’s assistant had worked his way aft with 
many hard knocks and disheartening experiences. Be¬ 
fore he could attach A.B. to his signature he had doubled 
the Horn, rounded the Cape and traded on tropical isles, 
gathering loot and trinkets in China and the far India. 
Then when he trod the quarter deck of the Oliver Crom¬ 
well it was as part owner. 

His education finished on the deep seas and his curios¬ 
ity gratified as to visions of the world’s ends he settled 
down to the management of the vast shipping firm with 
which he had gone out as cabin boy; he took the inevit¬ 
able dip into politics to keep his hand in on the running 
of the governmental machine, and after filling the posi¬ 
tion of Collector of the Port under Fillmore decided that 
he had earned a much needed rest and proceeded to en¬ 
joy it. Of course he could not handle so much wealth 
and scale such political heights without being thrown more 
or less in the company of the select social frigidities that 
even in that day made the “Hub'’ famous, eventually ac¬ 
knowledging his submission in leading the belle of her 
set, Patience Erskine, to the altar with a commendably 
New England union of caste and cash. Of this union one 
son, Nehemiah, resulted. 

In the stupendous palace, which it was considered in 
those days, in Ashburton Place, they set about the rearing 
and polishing of this gem of their wedlock; the lad in¬ 
herited from his mother a swift intellect and keen in¬ 
telligence and from his father a will as strong and rugged 
as his body. Out of his own consciousness he created an 
irreligious tendency and a decidedly unmoral squint at 
life. In quick succession he passed from a maiden lady’s 
primary to a public grammar school, next to a prepara¬ 
tory institution and thence to Harvard which he entered 


20 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


at an abnormally early age and from which, despite his 
dissipations, he eventually earned his degree with high 
honors. 

Not yet at his majority it was decided to send him abroad 
for the “Grand Tour” to put those finishing touches of 
subtle debauchery to the democratic soul that is engend¬ 
ered only in the presence of royalty. For Nehemiah (fairly 
dripping wealth), it was a prolongation of the riotous 
Harvard existence touched and gilded—if the terms may 
he employed—with the rococo tints of Parisian, German 
and English decadency, the very essence of which he im¬ 
bibed and assimilated for the future delectation of the 
golden youth of the staid old shrine of Puritanism. 

His frank and nonchalant atheism combined with a 
disdain of worship in the family pew of old King’s Chapel 
was complacently regarded by his adoring parents as the 
necessary accompaniment emblematic of the popular in¬ 
dustry of “sowing his wild oats” of which they express¬ 
ed their approbation by paying the debts he piled up, 
cheerfully; catering to every crazy whim in a fond dream 
of the day his vice husbandry would prove irksome and 
he would signalize his distaste for it by leading to the 
altar a virtuous bride to perpetuate the proud name of 
Coggeshall. 

But Master Nehemiah’s bucolic industry occupied an 
unconscionably long time—even the doting parents be¬ 
gan to manifest an uneasy wonder as to the nature and 
extent of the crop to be garnered. He could not be justly 
charged with “irregularity” in his habits for they were 
of a painfully monotonous character; consisting of bed all 
morning, a lounge in the Parks and the Mall in the after¬ 
noon, a swell supper at Parker’s or a bit at Parks’—famous 
for musty ale and broiled live lobster—in the evening, 
followed by the theatre, the Museum preferably,—later 
another dinner with a stage favorite at midnight with the 
gambling den to fill the hiatus of his ennui ere he drew 
the curtains of his room to slumber away the morning. 

The evenings that his doting and worried parents thought 
he should be passing in the company of worthy young 
social favorites or the elite of the intellectual world, just 
then beginning to break through its rough crusts to dazzle 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


21 


a continent, he spent hanging out of a stage box ogling 
the actresses. And here he met his fate. 

The piece itself was commonplace enough but an in¬ 
terpolation in the regular comedy brought on for a moment 
a dancer whose first lithe movement proclaimed her an 
artist in her line. She was obviously a simple Irish 
lassie, showing a quaint Irish reel, but the freedom and 
abandon with which she flung herself into it and the 
lithesome grace of her modest interpretation of the folk 
steps threw the blase audience into an uproar. Cogges- 
hall was the first of the crowd to demand her name of 
the manager who gave it grudgingly enough, due to the 
fact that association with the bloods inevitalDly resulted in 
the disappearance of his talent. 

Her name was Nancy Lonergan, just across from the 
old sod, turning her knowledge of the native dances to 
good account in eking out the scanty income derived from 
the sprigging of fine linens; her appearance on the boards 
was intermittent as she had no intention—unluckily for 
the greedy manager—of making it a sole means of live¬ 
lihood; but the town buck must have a closer look at her 
and the bold one he took at the stage door as she walked 
out chatting with the other girls threw him into a frenzy 
of passion. 

He swore he was hit at last and falling into poetic 
gloom regaled his confreres in idleness with sombre By- 
ronic lines to which he added some original ones—and 
not so awful bad, either. He vowed he would know her, 
he took an oath he would make her acquaintance—with 
which end in view he followed her home one night; just 
as she turned into the dark stairway running up the for¬ 
bidding tenement block fronting on Atlantic Avenue he 
accosted her. Even with the precarious aid of the dim 
oil light he was enabled to trace the wondrous beauty 
of rosy cheeks, rippling auburn hair, eyes that dazzled 
with their sparkle, below which swept long, curling lashes, 
the whole lit by a generous Irish mouth with a curve 
that bespoke hours of sunny smiles and the radiance of 
the innocent soul that flowed with her every word. 

Outside a slight shock at his unlooked for appearance 
she thought no more of him until a week later when he 


22 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


insisted on accompanying her from the theatre under the 
plea of protection from rowdies—whom she had never 
encountered; on this occasion he practically forced his 
way to the two rooms where she and her old mother 
dragged out their bleak existence and where he remained 
until after the watch’s cry of midnight—regaling them 
with accounts of his travels in Ireland and lively flashes 
of town gossip, much of which missed their simple wits 
and all of which was unrelished by their pure minds. 
He would not leave until he had almost dragged from 
them permission to repeat the visit—poor, bewildered 
little Nancy said her Rosary in a tumult that night. He 
did call again and again to the wonder and consternation 
of his neglected cronies as well as the alluring dancer; 
some inkling of the affair was eventually borne to the 
ears of his devoted mother by a baffled satellite, hut 
choosing to regard it merely as another chain of incident 
in his disordered life she chose to ignore the sordid fact. 
But when the destruction of their pride finally descended 
upon the parents it was too late to fend the catastrophe; 
Nehemiah Coggeshall spurned every trace of his elaborate 
education and training and running clear out of form 
bolted the velvety course in headlong flight. 

Now, to give the devil his due, let it be recorded that 
his disciple Nehemiah had set out with the deliberate in¬ 
tention of ruining the body and soul of the beautiful 
Irish dancer; he merely played along and idled his time 
patiently that he might revel longer in the delights of 
anticipation the better to enjoy the certain realization— 
but alas, alas for the sophistry of those good and wise 
souls who maintain that innocent ignorance is sheer crim- 
inalty and doomed to destruction—the irresistible rake 
found his pathway barred at the first vile step he essayed. 
His well selected and delicately put double meanings and 
vile inuendoes were shed from her pure mind as easily 
as the dew drops roll from the chaste petals of the rose 
—she simply refused to understand or be entertained by 
those subtle pleadings which had for him always been 
eminently successful in his nefarious business with the 
unfortunate females who had fallen foul of his dirty 
pathway. As to physical demonstration—the apparently 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 23 

negligent touch of his obscene hand on her body was 
repelled as if it were covered with slime—it was simply 
impossible. Even on those occasions that he plied him¬ 
self with liquor to summon courage enough for a break 
that precluded withdrawal, the pure lights shining through 
the windows of her virginal soul tangled his muddy 
thoughts and forced him to quit the field in the chagrined 
confusion of a man who has sustained a sound beating. 

He had set out with the distinct and certain intention 
of captivating the guileless peasant maid in order to 
flaunt her beauty before the eyes of his jealous friends— 
ere he consigned her to the rude fate of his other favor¬ 
ites; he finished by admitting to his egotistic soul that if 
he possessed a trace of divine ecstacy she had awakened 
it. He began to believe himself in love. And eventually 
she—poor, helpless female—fell a victim to that harsh 
decree of nature, the sex appeal, than which law (not 
even excepting maternity), Nature has no crueler for 
the female. 

To both, the futility of it was apparent in its inception 
—but they were sucked together as in a whirlpool. He 
knew his parents never would sanction a union and she 
realized her total unfitness to be the bride of the aristo¬ 
crat. Nevertheless, they slipped quietly out of the peace¬ 
ful stream into the deep waters of the sea of love pre¬ 
cisely as the waters of the river flowed into the broad 
harbor seen from her windows and before long they were 
afloat on the big uncharted ocean. Yet never had she 
been so weak and quiescent as to abate her demand for 
a ceremony according to the rites of her church—not all 
his anger, ridicule nor impatience could shake that. 

Just another step in the suicidal procession, he admitted 
bitterly to himself, as he regarded the reception of the news 
by his family; yet there were moments when he gave 
himself over to great joy in wondering what she expected 
to achieve by that—he would do that or anything else as 
quickly as he would elope with her, it was all a means 
to an end—an end he now impatiently prayed for. The 
dispensation was obtained and her pastor Father DeRoule 
of Saint James’ church married them; there was a short 
honeymoon during which, according to his request, a 


24 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


choice friend made a touching announcement of the stain 
that had come upon the family escutcheon to the stunned 
parents—thereby giving them ample opportunity to set 
the fireworks for his home coming reception with his 
bride. 

Said celebration came in the nature of a communica¬ 
tion that awaited him in his old bachelor apartments, sent 
by his father’s lawyer, being in the nature of a command 
to present himself at the earliest opportunity at his cham¬ 
bers. Rather sensing a course of sprouts in the curt and 
cavalier tone of the note the prudent Nehemiah primed 
himself pretty thoroughly with several slugs of Medford 
Rum ere venturing to swagger down on the ratty offices 
in Cornhill, cursing himself heartily all the way for a 
timid flutter at the heart caused by a mere employe of 
his magnificent parent. But neither his swagger manner 
nor imperative intonation caused a softening in the de¬ 
meanor of the clerks who greeted him in the outer offices 
and with a sensation of trembling in the knees he hung 
around trying to sense the peculiarity in the atmosphere 
that portended something out of the ordinary. 

Mr. Adams, senior member of the great firm, withheld 
his usual fawning and cordial hand while he eyed the 
culprit coldly; after motioning him to a chair he, with 
nipping courtesy and scant regard for the recent groom, 
pointed out the recent regrettable turn in affairs of the 
client whose business he had managed for years—going 
on in such a nerve racking way that the young fellow 
began to curse under his breath and beg for a cessation; 
winding up the harangue eventually he desired the prodigal 
to carefully peruse several papers with which he had 
been entrusted—which indeed he boasted of having drawn 
up. Thanking him with a fervent curse in his heart 
and with a look that he endeavored in vain to make ar¬ 
rogant and self sufficient as of old, Nehemiah, with a 
dreadful sinking of the heart, complied. 

The first was from his father and desired him to know 
that the servants had been ordered to forbid him the 
premises of Ashburton Place—forever. Before assimila¬ 
ting that communication from the very personage who 
had brought the necessity for it about, he picked up 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


25 


another with numb fingers and still number brain. 
It was a memorandum concerning a joint will by which 
the degraded offspring was cut off with a dollar—the 
vast estate that had begun to build up before he was born 
was bequeathed to art palaces, civic adornment plans 
and religious institutions of learning. Even with that 
harsh casting off dancing before his eyes, had there been 
a word conveying their participation in his downfall and 
an expression therefor he could have forgiven them—but 
at the signal of brutal inhumanity hurled in every line 
he felt he could not restrain himself; he fell to cursing 
them and the day he was born. With a touch of refined 
and demoniac irony his father had deeded to him the 
old house in what had once been the haunts of aristoc¬ 
racy—43 Fort Hill Square. 

At this latter Machivellian thrust he could no longer 
restrain himself and with a yell of dismay gave way to 
bitter, unmirthful laughter; it was eminently fitting and 
thoroughly reminiscient of the old sea captain to heap 
ashes on his head by thus consigning him (because of a 
union with an immigrant) to the haunts now rapidly be¬ 
coming identified with the immigrant—if anything more 
were needed to warn him of his degradation and herald 
his infamy to the world, this was it; it was a satire worthy 
of such a Spartan sire and between gales of laughter 
and blasphemy the disowned son staggered blindly from 
the rooms of the lawyer. 

With the waning of the honeymoon his passion faded 
to ashes; he had no income and no idea how to attain 
one. The pretty Nancy went back to her work—all but 
the stage, merciful heavens he couldn’t permit his wife 
to be ogled as he had ogled other women!—to maintain 
them. His money for fine clothes, liquor and question¬ 
able entertainment was obtained by putting into practice 
the finer points of gaming that he had conned in Europe. 

In a year the baby came, a hearty little beauty with 
a remarkable resemblance to the outraged Coggeshall side 
of the family tree—and who was looked upon by his 
fond parent as a devilish detriment to his straitened 
means as well as a reproach to an unworthy father. How¬ 
ever they named him Winthrop in the vague and shadowy 


26 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


hope that in the day the old salt’s heart might soften with 
the brilliant prospect of a perpetuation of the name to 
which he felt a fetish like attraction this evidence of past 
good intentions toward him might augur well for the 
fortunes of the outcast son. Long before the child’s ad¬ 
vent the breach between the pretty mother and the dis¬ 
sipated father had developed, widening gradually until 
they no longer even met, she keeping to the isolated rear 
rooms of the grand old house while he dragged his mis¬ 
anthropic existence out in the company of those select 
spirits who were complacent enough to forgive him for 
throwing away those precious dollars with which he had 
once fattened them in sin and luxury. 

The years glided away as only the years of youth can 
and saw no ray of light penetrate the gloom surrounding 
the soul of the outcast dandy. The old mariner shuffled 
off with no attempt at reconciliation, leaving the widow 
to maintain the dragon like watch in the austere mansion, 
screened from prying and sympathizing friends, taci¬ 
turn, acid like in her frigid repellance of the overtures 
of the friends of happier days. There never was a moment 
so desperate in the fortunes of her despairing son that 
he could summon fortitude sufficient to lure him to that 
implacable presence—the revelation of the existence of 
the banned wife would turn her milk of kindness to curds 
he knew; only too well he knew the soul of that woman 
who, permitting him to drift into open infidelity simply 
because it was the easiest way for him, could never recon¬ 
cile a heresy that compromised her social standing. 

No, a reconciliation that comprehended a surrender to 
such a daughter-in-law who had dared to ensnare his love 
was out of the bounds of possibility; nothing but her 
total obliteration would suffice to enter the opening wedge 
to her sealed affection. The hapless immigrant, still loving 
him desperately and hopelessly, was now going to the 
school of bitter experience, now was she learning that 
the fierce injunctions against mixed marriages hurled from 
the altar weekly bore every vestige of reason and logic, 
injunctions that were no longer to be lightly evaded and 
jeered at. She knew with a sick sensation of the soul 
that he wished himself rid of her—oh God, what a 
revelation! 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 27 

And this night, like a flash of lightning out of a clear 
sky, his freedom was revealed; out of the very heavens 
themselves had emanated the only plausible appeal he 
could conjure that could hope for lodgment in the flinty 
breast of the Puritan mother. Thus it was that as his 
steps echoed in the deserted streets, while morning ap¬ 
proached on its gray wings to usher in another spring 
day of hope and budding desire, as he became cognizant 
of the gradually accentuating sounds of reawakening city 
life while the heavy moisture of the gloomy night light¬ 
ened perceptibly, his heart cast olf its years of gloom; 
he pictured himself on the field of glory, sword in hand, 
urging his men on to victory, he saw himself returning 
honored and respected throughout the state he had helped 
save, he visioned himself the conquering hero flinging 
all else aside that he might throw himself at the feet 
of the Spartan mother who would take him to her bosom 
and shower her kisses upon him—now that the taint upon 
their name had been removed. But better still—and he 
sucked in a happy sigh at the thought—he would be free 
once more to breast the tide of social favor that he had 
once crested so happily, the life that for years had eluded 
him and only came to him in dreams as wells of pure, 
sparkling water come to the parched traveler in the desert 
during his delirium, the good old life of sin and luxury. 
It was like stalking forth from the tomb in its cerements 
—and to the amazement of the sleep tortured Larry he 
broke into a fit of long, hearty laughter in the very middle 
of the street. 

But his mirth was suddenly checked as he set his first 
foot on the proud old stairway; his mien instinctively 
sobered while he feigned an air of sober dignity and cold¬ 
ness as befitting one thrust into a new and unwonted 
situation that might at any moment betray him into a 
coarse emotion. The window draperies still flapped lazily 
in and out responsive to the murmuring caresses of the 
mournful sea breeze; rattling milk wagons began to clatter 
noisily over the rude cobbles; surrounding houses took 
on chill silhouettes and the cries of half awakened soldiers 
pierced the solemn atmosphere. At intervals heavily laden 
carts rumbled past on their way to Faneuil Hall and 


28 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


Quincy Markets; then immense stacks of sweet smelling 
hay, buried sleepily in which reclined farmer boys who, 
before many days, were destined to desert the peaceful 
humdrum they loathed for the horse and caisson of war 
where glory awaited them—and sometimes merciful death. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


29 


CHAPTER III. 

With the first step into the room adjoining that in 
which the dying woman lay the returning master of the 
house paused in blank dismay at an unwonted murmur 
of prayer; Father DeRoule had administered the last 
rites of the church and now the faithful women were 
responding sobbingly to the Litany of the dying. It 
smote even on his callous soul and for a moment forced 
a recession of the contemptible thoughts that had ranged 
his brain since first hearing the news from Larry; the 
pair exchanged glances and the attitude of the new re¬ 
tainer (as indicated by the quick suffusion of tears in 
hearing the solemn service) caused a sudden glow of 
pride in the heart of the supercilious Coggeshall. 

Flinging his cloak to one side he strode across the 
carpeted floor and steadying himself in the doorway paused 
to contemplate the scene ere entering the death chamber; 
the women were kneeling by the bed while the good old 
priest, his face haggard from the night’s vigil, sonorously 
intoned his petitions to the throne of grace for the soul 
that would soon bask within its rays. A moment he stood 
eyeing the dread scene; there she lay, the mother of his 
children, pitifully young to die, unconscious, mute, un¬ 
complaining as in life. The ravishing features were 
seamed with gray lines now, haloed with the tresses that 
had ensnared his vile fancy, the eyes closed forever against 
the world that had treated her so harshly. The flutter¬ 
ing candle held in her stiff ening fingers by the good neigh¬ 
bor cast fantastic shadows over the waxen countenance, 
a countenance showing more of peace and calm in its 
last moments than it had confessed in the years she had 
come to know his unfaithfulness. 

For moments he stood unnoticed by the praying group 
(to which Larry now lent his presence) arms theatrically 
folded across his breast and looks of almost compunction 
glued on the features of the scarcely breathing creature, 
his selfish breast a seething mass of contending emotions. 


30 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


There still survived beneath the crust of egoism and bru¬ 
tality and cynicism a trace of that passion that had proved 
the undoing of the innocent immigrant maid, but it was 
swiftly being obliterated in the rising tide of joy of a 
release from the chains that had galled for many a day— 
this female was but one of many. It was an abrupt but 
not unwelcome termination of a vexatious situation. 

Suddenly, as if scorning longer to contemplate a scene 
that his agnostic soul told him was but an End whereas 
their prayers revealed that they believed it the Beginning, 
he turned on his heel and stalked back to the outer 
apartment. As he trod heavily over the floor the boy 
awoke for the first time and blissfully and mercifully 
oblivious to the tragedy being enacted for him, rubbed 
his eyes sleepily, yawned, whimpered a bit for “Mother” 
—then feeling apparently the need of some protecting 
hand, even though it were the hitherto unfriendly one 
of the author of his being, ran to the window after Cogges- 
hall. This latter, still absorbed in his bewildering visions, 
did not so much as turn to look down at the tug of his 
coat tails, but opening the blinds of one of the bay win¬ 
dows threw up the latter to permit a flood of all the 
early sunshine to reveal the dingy interior of the once 
grand room. 

In the distance he saw a first sun glint tint the peak 
of a vessel slowly dropping down from its mooring in 
the Charles—dropping down with the tide as (and he 
could not forbear a superstitious shudder) a soul was 
dropping from its earthly moorings with the tide running 
into Eternity. The Square was all aquiver with anima¬ 
tion, thronged with vehicles and pedestrians shuttling 
between the ferry, the Narrow Gauge and the teeming 
City, considerably livened too by the straggling troops 
tramping in stolid regularity toward the Hartford & 
Erie by which they were transferred to the training camp 
at Readville. 

The kaleidoscopic review which he now overlooked 
blotted in a flash the gruesome scene he had just quitted; 
the eye of the soldier lit with a sensation akin to holy 
joy for at this juncture Boston, aflame with religious 
zeal, was sending its best blood to the front as one might 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 31 

send a family to prayer meeting—or to a picnic. Along 
they came, men and boys, riding and striding, shouting 
and singing, keeping step to the music of their own voice 
and words:— 

“ ’Twas on a Sunday morning with my sweetheart by my 
side, 

We jumped into the wagon and we all took a ride. 

Then wait for the wagon, wait for the wagon, 

Wait for the wagon and we’ll all take a ride.” 

How they bellowed it out and how the curbstone spec¬ 
tators cheered and echoed the popular jingle! The sounds 
rose and fell, beating against the grim sturdy buildings, 
drowning out the drone of the death watch, making to 
leap and surge the blood of the Coggeshall chafing at 
the delay in joining the Crusade. Occasionally a rude 
sort of time was maintained and the measure accentu¬ 
ated by the throbbing boom of a bass drum and the 
shrill complaint of a fife. 

Like a dog in leash or a mustang cornered he strode 
from window to window to gain any point of observa¬ 
tion better suited to his eager, raging mood, dogged at 
each turn in piteous fashion by the tiny lad who cling¬ 
ing to the end of his braided coat trotted sturdily and 
patiently along, brave and pathetic, still too sleepy and 
worn to comprehend anything out of the ordinary in 
the conduct of the parent who was at all times impa¬ 
tient and indifferent to him. A mounted orderly clattered 
up to the door, flung himself from the horse, threw the 
rein to a youngster and running up the steps came into 
the hall where, being greeted by the Captain, he handed 
him a message from the Colonel. It was an order to re¬ 
port at once at the armory to lead his command to Read- 
ville; he swore impatient oaths at himself and his un¬ 
toward fate as he penned a reply detailing the circum¬ 
stances and craving a few hours until matters had ad¬ 
justed themselves. Once again he flung up and down 
the room in a perfect frenzy of despair and chagrin. 

A battery roared, clattered and rumbled along; then 
another company of half uniformed fledglings trooped 
by gleefully shouting and whooping a favorite song of 
the day:— 


32 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE BIOLD 


“U pi cle I de I da, U pi de I de I da, 

U pi de U pi da, U pi de I da.” 

To this some camp wag had added a facetious blast at 
some unpopular officer in a species of doggerel that shrill¬ 
ed out by one was answered by a thundering chorus of 
the rest:— 

“Major Cant is getting fat. 

Since he shot his old black cat. 

U pi de I de I da, U pi de I da.” 

So they streamed along that glorious spring morning, 
past the house of death, jovial, elated, foolishly inspired 
bv the fanatic belief that the enemy would melt before 
them like mist before the rising sun and that the whole 
business was in the nature of a jaunt to a section of the 
country they would be unable to visit otherwise. What 
a rude awakening lay in store! The last file straggled 
down High Street, with its tiny corporal waving good¬ 
bye to a maid in a front window; there came a sudden, 
chilling silence that even the abstracted Coggeshall could 
not ignore longer; he turned with a shiver of dread. The 
priest was crossing the room behind him; he halted in 
adjusting his cloak. 

“She has passed away sir” simply; then stood as if 
expecting some sign or direction. There was nothing 
from the bereaved husband but a slight, well bred in¬ 
clination of the head, signifying that he comprehended and 
with as much emotion as if the butler had just announced 
dinner; with a slight sigh the priest passed out. Now 
came the two women, weeping bitterly and loudly, to the 
wonder of the wide-eyed lad, and Larry, still wiping his 
eyes—with a note of deferential sympathy that somehow 
fastened itself on the tangled brain of Coggeshall more 
tenaciously than anything else in the sordid drama. Pres¬ 
ently it filled the tiny Winthrop with a sort of consterna¬ 
tion for he suddenly clung to his father’s legs and buried 
his face against them. Nehemiah Coggeshall was free! 

Free at last to return to the paternal mansion in Ash¬ 
burton Place so long blotted from his sight, to throw him¬ 
self at his mother’s feet and crave that long delayed for¬ 
giveness; only too well did he know that purged of the 
plebeian error of his degraded union his presence could 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


33 


not grate on her finer sensibilities. He must take the 
handsome lad to mediate in his favor if mediator were 
necessary, afterwards consign him to her loving care dur¬ 
ing the holy war. When he returned— 

“What do y’ wish done sor?” Margaret asked with a 
harsh, choking sob; he started, ashamed at being detected 
by these—er—people in a fit of abstraction that might 
lead to the conclusion that the vulgar incident preyed 
upon him. 

“Eh?” confusedly, “Eh? Why—oh summon one of your 
best undertakers, you will have the rites prescribed by 
your faith of course—no doubt—” then his voice trailed 
off confusedly for nothing in his long, varied and rich 
career occurred to him just then to suggest a remedy for 
his embarrassment. The two women exchanged glances 
—and if Irish scorn, contempt and loathing carried any¬ 
thing of a physically annihilating nature the Confeder¬ 
ates would have been spared one enemy on the spot. 

“But the baby, sor, th’ baby” prompted impatiently 
Margaret; he started again with a foreign epithet that 
luckily for their ears was not understood. 

“The—er—what? The baby?” looking down in foolish 
dismay at the lad fondling his knees, regarding him in 
infantile wonder. Mrs. Casey sniffed and there was in 
that simple manifestation of hidden meaning an accent 
that had the aristocrat the power of diagnosing it would 
have vividly conveyed to him her regard for the size of 
his intellect—no words were more eloquent 

“YT1 not be bothered wid th’ angel very long I’m 
thinkin’ ” she sobbed sharply with a swift catch in her 
voice while her grief swollen features twitched, “If his 
mother’d on’y waited she cud ha’ taken him t’ th’ throne 
o’ heaven wid hersel” at which the pair, ignoring the 
look of mystified impatience on Coggeshall’s face, took 
up again their bitter weeping. 

“There’s another bye sor” prompted Larry in kindlier 
tones than those employed by the distressed females, 
“A poor, weeny little kippin’ shin that I’m thinkin’ll 
meet himself’ cornin’ f’rm heaven.” 

“Good God!” he ejaculated far from prayerfully. 

“D’ye wish me t’ care f’r him till th’ Lord takes him 



34 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

t’Himsel’ ”? quavered Margaret; he leaped at that like 
a trout at a fly. 

“Do, do, there’s a good woman” he implored, “I’m 
worried to death—I’ve been ordered to my company—” 
then as if suddenly struck by some brilliant recollection 
his face lightened; turning he strode across the room to 
an ancient escritoire which he flung open and drew a 
purse out of, a purse filled at the gaming table. “Here” 
and without even counting it he handed it to her, “make 
use of this as far as it goes and let me have a memoran¬ 
dum of further expense.” This speedily put a better face 
on the matter for, well intentioned as was the pair, there 
were mouths enough at home to fill and backs to clothe 
without dragging in this extra burden; the sight of the 
bulging purse prompted the hope that there was enough 
to ensure a “dacent layin’ away of th’remains.” 

“Coleman” he called sharply to the drowsing Larry, 
(that matter well off his mind) “Call me a herdic, my 
good fellow.” Which Larry hastened to do and there 
shortly appeared in response to his shrill whistle the 
vehicular monstrosity perpetrated by some individual seek¬ 
ing to outvie the Spanish Maiden; whose narrow escape 
from accomplishing it will be heartily attested by any 
luckless fare who has ridden (jolted from floor to ceiling) 
at break-neck speed through crowded thoroughfares, fol¬ 
lowed by the hearty imprecations of citizens whose lamp 
of life it nearly snuffed in its headlong rush. For every 
herdic driver is as reckless, as clever, possessing the 
ability to guide his vehicle in a manner that a jack rabbit 
or a polo player might envy, taking every corner on one 
wheel while the nonchalant Jehu leans from the box to 
flirt with a maiden on the curb who is there only by the 
grace of a merciful providence and the luck of a swift 
backward spring. 

Coggeshall stooped to lift the boy but Larry, suddenly 
uniting himself with the family in a pathetic effort to 
prove of use, with all the zeal and hearty faithfulness of 
the Gael, was before him; quietly gathering the lad to 
him, he laid him across his shoulder and preceded the 
gloomy Coggeshall out to the street; the master looked 
up at the enquiring driver ere he stepped in to the car¬ 
riage. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


35 


“Nine Ashburton Place” he called up and they were 
off. Not a word came from the strange group as it rode 
up Oliver and Pearl to Franklin where the head-long pace 
slackened perceptibly on gaining the congested districts; 
Coggeshall was too rapt in his moody cogitation even to 
note the many stops they were forced to make to accom¬ 
modate their way to the passing of bodies of soldiers. He 
was busy originating and rehearsing the few lines and 
situations with which he had determined to placate the 
grim mistress of the old home whose doors he had not 
darkened since the morning (—oh, so many Nears ago it 
seemed!) he had walked out of the house in a blaze of 
passion, secretly set on marrying the pretty little Irish 
girl who had challenged his vagrant and obscene fancy. 

On Washington Street there were many stops during 
which the clogged Jehus improved the golden opportunity 
of sharpening wits by passing the usual glowing eulogies 
on the ability of their rivals—together with hints as to 
the feasibility of entrusting a goat to the tender minis¬ 
trations of such riff raff—winding up by fervent hopes 
of a total annihilation both of his enemy and the un¬ 
fortunate skate he tormented. The motley human tide 
safely negotiated at last the driver sought to make up 
for lost time by a spurt that kept his unfortunate passeng¬ 
ers ricochetting from cushion to cushion, giving them 
neither time to plead for mercy nor stay of sentence. To 
which perhaps is due the canny custom of demanding 
fares in advance, as there is no telling what might happen 
in the meteor-like rush through the cobbled streets. 

Park Street and then Bowdoin—of a sudden they turned 
into the well known Place; with a shiver and deep breath 
of mingled nervousness and relief he again viewed the 
house in which he first saw the light of day. There it 
stood in its old, sedate majesty, as stern and unrelenting 
as his cold ancestors, massive curved iron railings flank¬ 
ing the grand marble steps—not even softened (he thought 
to himself) by the mass of twining ivy that, just bursting 
into spring freshness, clung lovingly and tenderly as of 
old to every niche, crevice and projection of the blank 
and frowning front. 

Again Larry lifted the wondering child and followed 


36 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


Coggeshall, white and quivering despite himself, with a 
recrudescence of a well remembered boyhood fear, up 
the big steps; a sudden pang of grief shot atlnvart his 
soul, in the reflection that one old fear had been removed 
—by the death of the stern old sea captain. He paused 
a moment to gather his wits before reaching for the well 
known knocker, the object of much curiosity on the part 
of those maids (long enough in service in the neighbor¬ 
hood to recall his handsome features) who happened to 
be in the front at this early hour—the clang of the metal 
was answered after a discreet pause by a fresh faced 
butler who showed no more traces in his leathern visage 
of the passing years than he did of surprise at the sight 
of the young master he had not looked upon in many 
months—nor did he seem to remember the dying injunc¬ 
tion of his hard old master. 

“Good morning Billocter” in dignified recognition, “How 
do you do?” 

“Quite well I thank you” over his stiff* neck muffler 
in such well modulated tones that Larry began to wonder 
if the whole matter had not been previously rehearsed. 
“And ow are you sir?” about as if he had just come 
from a morning’s walk. 

“Is it too early to see my mother?” he demanded a 
trifle anxiously. 

“H’l think not sir—she’s an early riser you know, sir” 
and with a complete disdain of the mariner’s order he 
showed the way to the reception room: the gloom of it 
seemed to render the boy timid, for he clung nervously 
to the rough hand of Larry, while his eyes travelled in 
shy amazement over the walls covered with trophies of 
other lands garnered by the Captain in his many years 
at sea. Coggeshall paced the floor nervously, rather 
crestfallen that the meeting was all of his own doing and 
that he had not been able to wait for a summons, as he 
had often flattered himself he would. In the midst of 
a dreary thought that she might refuse to kill the fatted 
calf, Billocter maneuvered into the room on his grand 

legs- 

“Right this way, sir,” he announced stiffly, and Larry 
shrewdly conjectured the master barely suppressed a yell 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 37 

of relief as, taking the hand of the lad himself, the butler 
waved Larry to a corner to await his pleasure while he 
convoyed the pair up the grand stairway to the august 
presence. Leaving them at the head of the stairs, father 
and son pursued the remainder of the distance alone and 
it would take a keen observer to pick out the more agitated 
of the two as the elder timidly knocked on the massive 
door; without waiting for a summons to enter he turned 
the knob and stepping inside mother and son confronted 
each other for the first time in years. 

There was a moment’s pause, a moment of tender, 
pathetic yearning on the part of the mother and at least 
of softened pride on the part of the unnatural son—then 
reading the well known signs of surrender in the pale, 
refined features he fairly threw himself across the room 
to fall at her feet with arms embracing as much of her 
person as he could sweep into them in a frantic embrace. 
He fairly grovelled before her and for several minutes 
they mingled their sorrowful and happy tears; she drew 
him up to her for another long and fervent embrace—a 
gesture that assuaged the pain of years as did the first 
kiss on his dewy lips obliterate all traces of child birth 
agony. 

“You forgive me, mother?” he half cried, half laughed, 
sobbing like a child; she strained him to her bosom while 
the bitter tears flowed down cheeks unused to those signs 
of weakness. 

“Years and years ago” she moaned and despite himself 
a feeling of relief submerged every other emotion; he 
was safe. 

“I have come to the only true refuge in sorrow, mother,” 
he explained at length, after taking a chair by her side 
where he caressed her soft hands, “I have brought my 
troubles to you—this” indicating the bewildered lad for¬ 
gotten in the rush of greeting, “is my boy, Winthrop.” 
Her eyes flared both at the name and the beauty of the 
child—“A Coggeshall” she muttered fervently and pray¬ 
erfully—then drew him to her with the old caressing ges¬ 
ture she had employed on her ungrateful offspring. “This 
is grandmama” his father prompted fairly quivering at 
the certain and easy victory, “I love her like you—” 


38 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


then he paused in embarrassment as the face of his mother 
hardened. “She—she has just passed away*’ he explain¬ 
ed for the benefit of that look and in the exchange of 
gratified glances one might read the standing of the hap¬ 
less immigrant—who too had been a mother. 

“Indeed?” and fell to caressing the pretty boy again. 

“Perhaps you know I am Captain of the Blues” he 
announced proudly and she answered by a happy pres¬ 
sure of the hand she still clasped. “I have been ordered 
to join my company—which I will do after the funeral,” 
with an apologetic air for obtruding that again. He 
took several rapid turns up and down the floor while she 
talked to and fondled the lad. “May I leave him with 
you until I return, mother?” Her answer to that was 
a sweeping into her arms of both. 

“Yes—how can I deter you from the field of honor?” 
she demanded, raising her head proudly: “he will take 
your place with me—go if your country calls you” and 
again a tidal wave of selfish elation swept over his 
craven soul at the prospects held forth by the splendid 
reunion. 

The ordeal was ended, no matter what happens now 
the door to her heart was never more to be closed against 
him. In the few brief moments he accorded her hungry 
heart, the conversation was lively and animated but con¬ 
tained nothing more of his married life than was neces¬ 
sary to explain his position; he made his excuses to get 
away as soon as possible, doing it under the plea of duty, 
but in reality to satisfy his inner craving for the refresh¬ 
ment denied him for some hours. Taking leave of the 
boy and her he assured her the parting would be but 
of short duration; he promised to return speedily to make 
up for the lost hours he had spent away from her. 

He paused a moment in the doorway to wave another 
fond farewell to the woman who could even feel resent¬ 
ment at a war that promising so much served to deprive 
her of the company of the only creature on earth her sel¬ 
fish soul loved or revered: he was the shrine she had 
set up herself and at which she worshipped hourly—she 
longed for the return of the object of her devotion and so 
it was that in the last look there was photographed on 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


39 


her soul the impression of his laughing face that only 
faded as the light of life melted from her vision. 

Below he saw Larry emerge reluctantly from the area 
way wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and 
proffering unmistakable symptoms of that very indulgence 
his whole frame craved: the wily Billocter (beneath his 
professional air of unconcern) was so bitten with a de¬ 
sire to learn all that had transpired to cause the return 
of the prodigal, he readily put into Larry all he asked, 
in return for drawing out all he himself wished to know. 
Larry and Coggeshall left the house together. 

Close together they remained in the days the beastly 
master gave himself over to brutish jubilation at his 
freedom and reconciliation with the source of much need¬ 
ed income—for that was what the doting parent represent¬ 
ed most of all to the man she had made that way; it was 
Larry helped him aboard the train for Readville: it was 
to the faithful Irishman he owed his safe arrival at the 
nation’s capital; it was Larry convoyed him from the 
gaming halls of that city to the encampment in time to 
escape a well merited rebuke for his debauchery. Finally 
—it was into his arms he fell that bright summer day 
when, during an inconsequential skirmish in Virginia, a 
stray bullet lodged in his breast: his the last voice raised in 
sorrow as his ears grew deaf; his the hands that finally 
closed the wondering eyes looking around in mute re¬ 
proach on the smiling world growing dark for the last 
time, seeming to read the riddle of a career that, promis¬ 
ing so much, was so easily and abruptly concluded. 


40 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER IV. 

A little accommodation train puffed lazily under the 
wooden bridge, hesitated an instant as if undetermined 
to make its usual stop, but finally (on drifting in before 
the tiny, sooty station) halted with a groan of dissatis¬ 
faction; a few passengers stepped briskly off to the plat¬ 
form and leaving them to their frantic efforts to evade 
the kidnapping designs of the two persistent hackmen 
clamoring to haul them up town the train rolled sleepily 
on for another mile to the point where the locomotive 
was turned to takes its charge leisurely hack to the City. 

One helpless, unfortunate old lady fell a victim (and 
the word is used advisedly) to the wiles of the shaggy 
driver of the ancient and venerable vehicle adorning the 
front of the railroad station; taking warning by her un¬ 
timely fate the rest—with the exception of one—hurried 
off and left her and the other disappointed driver to 
their fate. The one daring individual who lingered in 
the face of the danger seemed going over in his mind 
some direction as to his course of procedure. Seeing 
which eventually the old station master, halting as he 
was about to step inside the door, looked back enquiringly 
at the stranger as if inviting confidence. 

“How shall I go to find the Woolen Mills?” taking the 
proffered hint. 

“What say? Oh, the Craigie Mills?” 

“Yes.” 

“Straight ahead sir, first turn to the right—you’ll see 
it from there, you’re welcome” and waiving further thanks 
stepped inside the door through a chink in which he 
studied the new comer furtively as he turned in the di¬ 
rection indicated and with a sweeping stride went his way. 
It was one of those curiously mild days in March with 
which a New England winter is wont to beguile the eager 
and impatient watcher for spring into the belief either 
that it has arrived or has telegraphed ahead its imminence 
—a day to fool the oldest inhabitant, despite his intimacy 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


41 


with the treachery of the most treacherous climate in 
any part of the globe. The sun shone almost dazzlingly 
in a cerulean sky as innocent of hidden storm as the 
face of an infant pillowed on its mother’s breast; true, 
there was a nipping wind from the east but in contrast 
with the borean blasts that had swept over the land 
since the first day of March it was a zephyr from Araby 
to the denizen in search of spring. The gravelled walks, 
that heavily frosted over night, were beginning to thaw 
into a slight muddiness under the caresses of the ardent 
sun. 

The stranger threw his spring top coat over his arm 
and giving his cane arm full swing strode along with the 
air and bearing of the trained athlete. He was a trifle 
above medium height, well set up, limber, with a grace 
and certainty that bespoke lithe muscles rather than a 
surplus of brute strength. His shoulders were square, 
tapering through a short neck into a beautifully shaped 
head covered with jet black hair crisping from beneath 
the high silk hat that at that period had not reached 
the point where it signified a politician, a hack driver 
at a funeral or a vendor of patent medicines—neither 
was it as yet utilized as a trap for the unwary kicker when 
snugly concealing the half of a brick. 

His face, lit up by surprisingly clear and dark eyes, was 
smooth shaven as a priest or actor’s with the exception 
of a neatly blocked patch of hair extending before each 
ear, “sideboards” in the cant term of the day; his lips 
were a trifle too mobile to indicate a lasting strength 
of character indicating on 'the contrary the voluptuary 
and giving the impression of cynicism in the rare smiles 
that curled them. A snug fitting “Piccadilly” collar 
was embraced by a quiet and tasteful Ascot tie while 
his Prince Albert fitted him like a glove, its gloom being 
relieved by the white muffler then the prevailing vogue. 
His steps were sure and springy despite the apparent 
handicap of a crowding necessitated by the pointed, 
“toothpick” patent leather shoes. 

To the man who had known Nehemiah Coggeshall 
there was more than a fleeting recollection in every move, 
gesture and tone of the stranger as he paced along that 


42 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


spring morning; indeed, were the ugly strands of beard 
with which his father’s face had been disfigured placed 
on him an immediate and certain recognition would have 
been the result—he was the reincarnation of the man 
to whose coat tails he had clung as he trotted up and 
down the room on a certain spring morning when his 
mother—of whom he carried not the slightest recollection 
—passed away. Of course he knew but little more of 
the gallant and highly revered Captain Coggeshall whose 
memory he was forced to worship in the shape of a 
picture over which his otherwise unemotionable and Spar¬ 
tan grandmother eternally mourned. 

Thoughtfully pursuing his way with the first turn to the 
right, as he had been told, the Woolen Mill revealed 
itself. It was neither a rare nor startling sight to a New 
Englander, just the usual barrack-like affair setting snugly 
in a bed that would later be verdant lawn—punctuated 
by cleverly designed flower beds—seeming to demand of 
nature that artifice necessary to enrich the view that man 
himself destroyed. On the balmy air there floated to 
his acute ears the familiar hum of loom and shuttle im¬ 
patiently bursting bounds that it might announce to a 
waiting world its pragmatic value; he idled along by 
the high fence, looking in at the penned sheep soberly 
nibbling about and nosing out any attempt at verdure 
the season promised, but getting for their pains nothing 
more than much needed exercise after a winter’s seclusion. 

With the eye of an expert he sized up the clusters of 
buildings, mostly drab, mostly unpainted, mostly repel- 
lant, all painfully alike in their unpretentious simplicity, 
crude, harsh, concocted as it were to preserve the har¬ 
mony of things in general by making the exterior of the 
huts of the toiler conform to the interior—thus raising 
no false hopes of preferment for their souls by an at¬ 
tempt to gladden the eye on first approach. The abodes 
of the unfortunate Mill workers of course—herded to¬ 
gether in uncongenial surroundings and affording the 
one touch of humanity or practicability by a proximity 
to the daily tread mill; the dwellers afforded the luxury 
of a few moments longer in bed in the morning and a 
quicker resort to lunch. The new comer came to a stand- 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


43 


still as if turning over in his mind something in con¬ 
nection with the bleak prospect, shifted his cane and 
coat, frowned a trifle, narrowed his eyelids in critical 
contemplation—then with a shrug and cynical smile moved 
on again. 

“If nothing else were offered as an excuse for suicide” 
he talked to himself softly, “commend me to a mill 
town. And men died to set the nigger free,” which sur¬ 
prising soliloquy on the part of an aristocratic appear¬ 
ing individual hinted a tendency to social introspection 
both unusual and unexpected. 

His keen eye still travelled the neighborhood over, 
taking in Mill, dwellings, roads, stores, shops—built along 
the railroad line—finally looking a long way off and up 
over the sky line of Mill to the hill that, looming in its 
turquoise mass against a steely-blue sky, bore on its crest 
a gray stone structure, from the top of which was dis¬ 
played storm signals, it being, in fact, the observatory 
on Blue Hill. Here and there he saw a glint of sparkling 
water that pursued its course about the Mill until it lost 
itself in the meadows below the town. 

Now he was at the big gate itself and after a last 
survey of Craigie’s pride he entered, stepping briskly up 
the board walk bisecting the office that set at an angle to 
it offered the only entrance and exit for the employes; 
pushing open the door with the big glass window he stood 
a moment just over the threshold as he gazed about trying 
to find a name on a glazed door window that would guide 
him aright. A young woman looked up from her desk 
in a room on his left and as there came a welcoming gleam 
into her enquiring eyes as she arose hastily he stepped 
toward her. 

“Shall I find Mr. Craigie here at this hour?” he ques¬ 
tioned with what might have been taken for an ingratiat¬ 
ing smile, if one were blessed with a keen imagination; 
she smiled openly at that and he was made aware of an 
attractive face with remarkably fine teeth for a working 

girl. 

“Is this Mr. Coggeshall?” she countered timidly, at 
which he bowed; “Oh yes, Mr. Craigie has been looking 
for you since he came to the office.” She pushed a chair 


44 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

toward him. ‘‘Please be seated and I will tell him you 
are here.” She was hack in a moment. “Step right this 
way please” and complying he was escorted across the 
hail to a door marked “Hugh Craigie, Private” through 
which he stepped into the presence of the great man 
himself. 

The latter came up eagerly from his office chair and 
extending a brawny hand clasped the smaller, but none 
the less sinewy, hand of the intruder. 

“Welcome to Fern Park, Mr. Coggeshall, welcome again” 
his face glowing in the fervor of his expression; as he 
turned to reach a chair for a confidential chat the new 
comer had a chance to negotiate a swift mental apprais¬ 
al of the man whose name was a household word in New 
England. 

Except for a slight stoop he was an erect, well-knit, 
vigorous old Scotchman of about sixty five, hair—both 
on the top of his well-thatched head and trim Burnsides 
—white as snow, ruddy faced, eyes as penetrating as 
the younger man’s own, physically and mentally, powerful, 
brusque, crisp, opinionated, stubborn in manner and 
generally harsh and overbearing in tone and words. Add 
to this an unfaltering Bourbonism, a pitiful tenacity for 
the old regime, a bitter chauvinism—and you complete 
the picture of a man probably as much despised as 
respected, all depending on whether one bought or sold 
in his market. 

He had been born and nurtured in that dire poverty so 
very annihilating as to render its victims impervious to 
the fact that it was really poverty—a poverty so uncom¬ 
plainingly suffered by generations before him that there 
was no valid reason why it should not be tolerated by 
generations yet to come; borne with the same indifference 
that one puts up with a cast in one’s eye or being left- 
handed instead of right. When scarcely able to hold 
himself up on a stool he had started on a career in the 
damp, ill-heated and worse ventilated hut he called 
home. It was a task that began with the first beam of 
the sun in the morning (they were far too poor to afford 
artificial light) and lasted until the disappearing sun made 
it impossible to note longer texture or color. There were 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 45 

six days of the week of that with rest and recreation on 
the seventh, consisting of whole mornings in the kirk 
listening to mournful sermons on the beauty of another 
life and interminable afternoons spent in reading and 
arguing the Bible, interspersed with the self same gabble 
and mentally stunted harangues he had suffered all week. 

Someone had escaped it and sailed for America; an¬ 
other followed and another until the restlessness got into 
the soul of Hughie Craigie and feeling it his turn he 
determined to take the dismal ride out of the village to 
the sea coast whence he was borne to the promised land, 
to God’s own country; into it he brought a hard head, a 
sound even if untrained mind and a clean soul. 

His greeting on the dock had been a hand clasp and a 
kiss from his home sick forerunner followed by the prag¬ 
matic “An’ noo f’r th’ Mill Hughie” for which of course 
he had sailed the turbulent ocean in the old scow that 
wallowed for weeks in its trough—so into the Mill he 
plunged. Amazing as it may seem, to the hardy nurtured 
Scotch lad, the work in the roar of the mill was a relaxa¬ 
tion compared with that with which he had put up with at 
home. From the very first, moment he began to climb. 
Scarcely was he of age than he was made foreman, a few 
years later superintendent and not long after (with the 
wages penuriously hoarded) part owner; the day he wel¬ 
comed Winthrop Coggeshall he was the virtual head of that 
vast body (later to be stigmatized as a “trust”) that con¬ 
stituted the very vitals of New England. 

He had never married—there was no time in his busy 
life for “sic’ fripperies”—and his wonderful home in the 
finest residence section of Fern Park (ironically designated 
“The Mansion on the Hill”) was managed by his beauti¬ 
ful niece, fruit of the “unholy alliance”, (as her uncle 
termed it) of his youngest sister with a poor, luckless 
story writer; one who believed he could temper Scotch 
dourness by a plaintive rehearsal of modern woes of 
Scotland when they demanded legends of the days of 
Bruce and Wallace—the result being that he went unread 
and unremunerated until the day he lay down with a sigh 
to leave a loving wife to grieve for him and the fate of 
the pretty child she had borne him. Some years after 



46 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


(on her death bed) the just, even if stern elder brother, 
had taken the child into his care promising to rear it as 
it should be reared. Subsequent events proved it the 
happiest episode in the entire bleak existence of the 
Scotch millionaire. 

For a man who had got his book learning when other 
lads were seeking much needed rest he was well educated, 
speaking English very precisely and Scotch very em¬ 
phatically—when greatly moved by anger or excitement— 
as he could thus give expression to the axioms and aphor¬ 
isms that sounded better in the native setting; he was 
scrupulously honest, a veritable measure-for-measure man, 
yet with a dull, stilted idea of the rights of those people 
now infesting the very precinct that had once been his 
habitude. That he had come up from the mire and 
slime of poverty was sign enough that everybody should 
do so, giving but little consideration to the fact that the 
very points on which he prided himself the most were the 
very points the world is apt to view with contempt. In 
other words, he had no mercy on the individual who 
would not succeed according to his lights. 

As Coggeshall laid aside his coat and cane after doffing 
the hat (on which the Mill owner seemed to cast a sini¬ 
ster eye as deprecating the extravagant array) he drop¬ 
ped into the proffered chair almost knee to knee with the 
great man, thinking to himself that descriptions of the 
Scotchman had not been overdrawn. He calmly awaited 
the opening of the session by Craigie, looking straight 
into his eye as he did so, giving the elder man opportunity 
to read whatever was revealed in his frank countenance 
as he paused, with a steady regard from beneath the 
shaggy brows. 

“Y’ve come from Sebatus?” he demanded at length; 
Winthrop nodded. 

“I got in on the Portland boat this morning.” 

“And how’s me old friend McRae?” thoughtfully rub¬ 
bing his hairy hands together. 

“Just elegant—and sent his best regards.” Craigie 
smiled broadly. 

“There’s a man for ye—I’m thinking now ye learned 
something from him?” in an insinuating manner. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


47 


“I most assuredly did; a man has no place in a mill 
who had not been polished off by Thomas McRae.” A 
slight grimace wrinkled, a rare tint of satisfaction, suf¬ 
fused the face of the old Mill owner at that. 

“And ye were at Manchester?” 

“I guess I was licked into shape there.” Craigie looked 
into space in a reflective manner a moment. 

“Under Roscoe Boyd?” with sly insinuation. 

“Under Roscoe—and on top of him at times” with an 
incisive tone that made the other grin; evidently he knew 
the symptoms for he ground his hands together and joined 
Coggeshall in a wry smile. 

“On top of him ye say? Aye, he needs it at times— 
very much.” 

“You can bet your bottom dollar he got all that was 
his due from me” with asperity. “I don’t have to have my 
nose rubbed in the dirt to emphasize a point in my educa¬ 
tion. If ever there was an intellectual bull dozer that 
son of a gun of a Blue Nose is one.” Craigie’s face wore 
a frown of displeasure at some irritating thought. 

“And no necessity for it at all. Why bark at the 
stranger passing your gate quietly?” 

“He just simply can t help it Mr. Craigie.—” 

“What is the real trouble?” with a shrewd light in his 
gray eyes. 

“I really don’t know unless—” hesitating. 

“Yes?” 

“He was born too late—he should have been born in 
the south before the war. As for me, I simply took his 
waspishness as part of the apprenticeship and assimilated 
it as well as I could.” 

“Well, ye look the part” admiringly, “Prudent and 
patient. But tell me now” after a moment of embarrassed 
hesitation, “what accounts for you in a mill at all?” 
He laughed happily and frankly at that. 

“And why not?” 

“But ye don’t depend on it for a livelihood, there is 
none of the society to which you are used in a mill 
town—” and his voice fell softly into silence. Coggeshall 
grinned, bit the end olf his cigar, lit, with a reflective air, 
thrust his thumbs in his vest arm holes and rocking back 



48 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


and forth nonchalantly in his swivel chair regarded the 
interrogator through the maze of blue smoke. 

“Heredity, I guess” he mused. “There’s a cursed ata¬ 
vistic streak in me demanding energy. It skipped my 
unfortunate parent to break out with redoubled fury in 
me. I am saturated with the grinding virtues of my 
paternal grandfather in being intensely dissatisfied with 
myself—than which I know nothing better for anybody. 
Before I was out of Harvard I was planning—to the un¬ 
mitigated horror of my good old grandmother—to finish 
my training in textile pursuits rather than in the loafing 
places of Europe. McRae enticed me to Sebatus, Maine.” 
He puffed lazily while the old man regarded him in baf¬ 
fled wonder. 

“Your grandmother raised ye then?” keenly curious to 
lift the veil, if possible, that concealed the past of such 
an interesting specimen of gentility. 

“My father made a marriage that his folks deemed be¬ 
neath him—however they figured that out” he said bitterly. 
“I can’t see why, when two human beings mate, one can 
possibly be the inferior of the other as the fact of pro¬ 
posing and accepting premises a reciprocity that simply 
levels the temporary character of their relationship on 
the spot” with a swift philosophy that the heavier mind 
of his auditor found it extremely difficult to follow. “As 
I look on it my mother must have had the best of the 
argument—or I should not be here at all” with another 
bewildering flash that made Craigie arch his brows. But 
he gave no vocal notice although the younger invited him 
with a look. 

“So the morning that my mother died” he ran, “My 
father delivered me over to my grandmother—sort of 
hostage as far as I was able to gather from that reticent 
lady—” dryly. “He went right away to the war and was 
killed. I don’t recall either parent. My good grand¬ 
mother who tried—as all grandmothers do—to spoil me 
(and succeeded pretty well I guess) died three years ago 
and left me to hobble through life handicapped with the 
Coggeshall wealth.” 

“Which is a poor make shift for loving parents” 
thoughtfully and as if to himself; Coggeshall flung his half 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


49 


burned cigar into the sand filled box that served as a 
cuspidor. 

“I’d give every cursed cent of it to have one of my 
kin to talk to or to mourn me after my death” with a 
world of woe and resignation in his fresh, young voice; 
it was very pathetic to the old Scotchman who, having 
had the same situation in his own household, could drop 
for a moment the mask of unconcern and grieve for the 
trouble of another. 

“Well” suddenly rousing from his musing, “you show 
a wise mind in jumping into toil engrossing enough to 
take your mind off the vanities of life—and nothing else 
will,” leaving the younger man to figure out just what he 
denominated “vanities.” 

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt of that” decidedly; “doting 
as was my grandmother, prone as she was to gloss the 
faults of her own son, she was sensible enough to point 
out to me that his downfall dated from the moment she 
sought to instill in him the notion that honest toil was 
beneath him. Nothing but his honorable death served to 
remove the sting from her soul implanted by his heed¬ 
less, undutiful conduct as she at times related to me, not 
to impugn his memory, mind, but in hopes of guiding 
me by his mistakes. Yet a death to right the wrongs of 
years is devilish crude stuff outside a novel or off a 
stage I think.” 

“ Man-man ’ earnestly; “and now, not to change the 
subject, what do you know of the conditions that led to 
our tendering you the superintendency of our Mill?” 
Coggeshall cocked one leg over the other and leaning back 
easily in his chair smiled slightly at that. 

“Well, to say truth, very little” rather giving the im¬ 
pression that he was loath to commit himself. 

“Then I suppose McCrae had no time—” 

“Oh yes, McCrae had ample time to impart all I cared 
to hear from him. You see, I didn’t care to hear too much 
of conditions that I knew he had gleaned from you. I 
came here to draw my own conclusions.” Craigie sur¬ 
veyed him long and earnestly but the face of the young 
man was as unyielding as the sphinx. 

“But what are you going to work on?” He shrugged 
his shoulders. 


50 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Personal observation.” 

“Yes”—rather impatiently, “But that is the work of 
months—in the mean time the problem is here right 
now—” 

“But it wont take me months to solve the problem will 
it—if it is here right now?” 

“Do you know anything of the nature of it?” 

“Most assuredly. You have operatives who are begin¬ 
ning to think—” 

“Pardon me” sourly and curtly, “we have operatives 
who have forgotten—how to think—if they ever knew” 
very well satisfied with that observation. 

“What has given you that notion?” 

“Their attitude toward the Board and their employers.” 
The lips of the other curled into a grimly sarcastic smile. 

“Have they hitherto loved the Board and the bosses?” 

“They have at least kept their tongue between their 
teeth when measures tending to their betterment were being 
enacted.” Coggeshall elevated surprised eyebrows at that. 

“And now they have got to debating matters, eh?” in 
a manner that made the Old Man squirm as if he were 
in the hands of an unscrupulous lawyer on the witness 
stand. 

“From their point of view” almost sulkily. 

“And what is that?” insistently. 

“I don’t know—and not giving you a short answer— 
I don’t care” testily. 

“Oh, but that gets us nowhere, my dear Mr. Craigie. 
Why, I learned even from the blatant, bigoted, herring 
choking, Boyd.” 

“How, pray?” 

“By seeing how he did things—and then doing the op¬ 
posite.” There ensued a long, solemn silence, in which 
each seemed engaged in listening to the hum of the Mill, 
of the murmur of voices from the adjoining office. At 
any rate, a lot of thinking was being done by the owner 
and the tentative superintendent. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


51 


CHAPTER V. 

“Well” said the mill owner finally, speaking with delib¬ 
eration and in measured tones, “we made a mistake in our 
choice of a superintendent; this man Mannix had been 
with us man and boy twenty year and better—he kens 
the business from the sheep’s back to the tailor shop like 
none other in our employ. Still and all—he couldn’t get 
away from the idea that he still belonged to the class in 
which he had originated,” with a furtive glance to note 
the effect of that on the educated man sitting so imper¬ 
turbably before him. 

“I think I see” unemotionally, “It made no difference to 
him that you had guided his head into the clouds; his feet 
still strayed in the mud.” 

“Ye’ve said it” grimly. “He was forever arguing the 
side of the operatives against the owners. And they were 
blind fools enough to follow his leadership implicitly”, 
impatiently; Coggeshall evinced a slighter trace of interest 
at that. 

“Differing in that from what other part of the world?” 
but the Old Man refusing to answer he went on quietly. 
“We are too prone to overestimate the effects of blind ad¬ 
herence to their leadership of the masses while we coddle 
the rigid endurance of our own leadership too much—” 

“I fail to follow you sir” stiffly. 

“What more subservient on earth today than capital 
and capitalists? How childishly your hard headed stock 
owner listens to the tales of the directors—many of whom 
he does not so much as know and whom if he took the 
trouble to investigate he wouldn’t care to know—” 

“But they are men of prestige—” 

“To no greater extent as regards the problems of their 
fellows than are the labor demagogues.” 

“But labor will starve without capital—” 

“While capital—oh bosh, why deal in platitudes? As 
another shining example of letting some one do our think¬ 
ing look at our daily press, the palladium of our liberties 


52 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


as we so unctuously denominate it, what is its attitude 
toward the masses? The only extenuating circumstance 
is that the editor is not of them, his hide is saturated with 
finance, politics and—flattery, due entirely to his envi¬ 
ronment to which he is a more pitiable victim than is the 
denizen of the tenement to his.” Plainly the Old Man 
didn’t like all this, delivered in a mocking tone that 
carried as much conviction as one cared to confess, when 
the handsome, well groomed young aristocrat was doing 
nothing more nor less than fouling his own nest. He 
abruptly changed the tenor of their confab. 

“At any rate” he went on from the point where his 
mind had halted, “Mannix eternally persisted in telling 
of the wrongs of the help rather than discussing the in¬ 
terests of the managers” in righteous anger. Coggeshall 
nodded dryly. 

“And to what extent did their wrongs need champion¬ 
ing?” as innocently as the family tabby coming away 
from the canary’s cage. Craigie dropped back in his 
chair, his mouth comically drooping half open, staring 
blankly at the interrogator cooly staring back at him. 

“Wrongs? Wrongs said you Mr. Coggeshall?” in faint 
astonishment as if he had perpetrated some treasonable 
utterance. “But don’t you see if our people had wrongs 
we’d have needed no one to point "’em out” almost breath¬ 
less in his magnanimity. 

“Oh to be sure—provided always of course you make 
it a point to know your people’s grievances; you feel quite 
sure there was no need of an umpire?” 

“None whatever' slamming each heavy palm down on 
his knees emphatically. “We have here” with a compre¬ 
hensive sweep of his arms intended to take in the tenement 
environment, “a housing condition second to none in 
New England, convenient and cozy” with the unctuousness 
of a rental agent or a real estate dealer, “Convenient and 
cozy ’ he rolled the morsel under his tongue again. 

“To what extent do those people own their own 
homes?” in bland carelessness. 

“0—” cocking his head first on one side and then 
on the other as if deriving inspiration from the process, 
“Say—well a trifling per cent—very—their notion of 
economy doesn’t run that way” in easy explanation. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


53 


“No?” still with that disconcerting inflection. 

“No. To be frank with you” slowly and deliberately, 
“Mannix was constantly haggling with us on the ad- 
visibility of turning the houses over to the tenants who 
cared to take them and make payment, with interest, the 
same as rent,” rubbing his hands together as if doubting 
the effect of that and rather evading the searching eye. 

“Ah?” with the first pretense at interest. 

“He had a maggot in his brain that better homes make 
better workers—we disagreed there” acidly. 

“To what extent?” 

“Of deciding that once in possession of their homes 
they’d be wanting to own the Mill next” savagely. Cog- 
geshall smiled cynically and studied the Old Man through 
half closed lids. 

“I believe they would” unsympathetically. “But had 
you ever experienced anything of that sort?” studying 
his well manicured fingers as if they were the most en¬ 
grossing research he contemplated. Fire flashed from 
under the shaggy eyebrows. 

“Nothing outside a woeful knowledge of our people—an’ 
that’s an • education in itsel’ ” he growled in the Scotch 
way. 

“I see, I see” languidly, “and Mannix deliberately 
hazarded your esteem by foolish advocacy of their side of 
the controversy.” Again they sat as if rapt in study of 
the hum of the Mill. “Any other serious points of differ¬ 
ence?” in a tone that intimated he didn’t care whether 
there were or not. 

“Oh yes. It seems that of late the men have organized 
into a club that meets in a dismantled tenement house by 
the river—you’ll get to know it soon enough I warrant— 
called the Rookery—and have taken it on themselves to 
send committees —committees no less” with more scorn 
and bitterness than his amused auditor dreamed lingered 
in the human voice, “to tell us how to conduct our busi¬ 
ness.” He lay back to await the outburst of indignation 
and contempt, wonder, derision, that that must excite in 
the breast of the new super, but the latter, elbow planted 
on the chair arm and chin nestled in his palm was ab¬ 
stractedly rubbing his velvety cheek with a tapering fore- 


54 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

finger. As a matter of fact he was pondering how the 
hands felt about the owners telling them how to run their 
business—he was a man of vague impulses! 

“So you’re experiencing labor troubles here too are 
you?” 

“No” in a Craigie bellow, “No, we are not!” 

‘“Indeed?” with the bland expression of a Chinaman in 
a raided hop joint, “And how have you forestalled them?” 

“By refusing to meet any committee” with another em¬ 
phatic crash on the rugged knees. Coggeshall elevated 
querying eyebrows at that. 

“Then if these men fancy they have a grievance—let us 
say for argument—you have chosen to permit them to 
air it in the hall by themselves?” 

“If they chose to harangue themselves—it is a free 
country” sourly and Winthrop fell to pondering on the 
fact that when driving them to work they were “our 
people” but when they sought to do some driving no 
ownership was premised or desired. Thinking it over he 
was snapping the blade of his pearl handled pen knife 
back and forth while his eyes roamed out the window up 
and down the muddy road that lined the Craigie Mill 
property. 

“But you realize Mr. Craigie of course that men talk¬ 
ing themselves into a grievance never in the world can 
talk themselves out of it?” He brushed that aside im¬ 
patiently. 

“That’s neither here nor there; when we decide there’s 
a grievance we’ll settle it in our own way” and to his 
great relief—it made him nervous to hear the clicking— 
Coggeshall closed the knife and restored it to his pocket. 
“Inside the grounds we’re to be consulted—once outside 
they may consult themselves.” Coggeshall suddenly leaned 
forward in his chair until he had attained a more con¬ 
fidential proximity. 

“But hasn’t it occured to you that there is a process 
of reasoning that like a kitten chasing its tail gets us no 
where?” Craigie snorted but held his peace—he was a 
good listener when he chose to be. “Now let me tell you 
some of the things brought to your attention by the com¬ 
mittees—” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 55 

“McCrae has told you then?” he broke in moodily; 
Coggeshall almost laughed. 

“No—your men are only part of the mass of bubbles 
in the great American leaven.” Craigie folded his arms 
over his vast breast and settled himself with the resigna¬ 
tion of a martyr to listen to something disagreeable. 

“As you please sir—pray go on.” 

“They want shorter hours for the same pay.” 

“I hear ye” with a grim sneer. 

“Well —that will have to be conceded them” he lumped 
out so positively that the sober Craigie almost started from 
his seat. “Not right away” he tempered suavely, “nor in 
the way they dictate but the inevitable march of progress 
arrives at the point where we see that economic values are 
sadly out of adjustment.” 

“I fear you’re starting wrong, Mr. Coggeshall” with a 
dispirited wag of the head, but Winthrop only smiled back 
reassuringly at him. 

“They also asked you to readjust the hours of women 
and children and to raise the age at which children may 
be employed at all.” The old Scotchman came bolt up¬ 
right in his chair at that. 

“The hours of children indeed!” he echoed scornfully. 
“Mr. Coggeshall, when I was half the age of some of these 
pampered whelps making good money in my Mill I worked 
from dawn till dark—” 

“Yes—and so did the negroes down in Louisiana—and 
thousands of men and millions of dollars were spent in 
eradicating the system. We don’t want another civil war 
in this country so let’s avert it in a seasonable way and 
seasonably.” A hard, dark look overspread the stern 
face of the old Scotchman at this defection in his own 
ranks. 

Had he been sitting in the Presbyterian church and 
heard the preacher advocate fealty to the Pope or the 
placing of a saint’s statute behind the pulpit he could 
not have been more disturbed or distressed. It was sev¬ 
eral moments before he could trust himself to talk but 
when he did he fairly bit off his words. 

“Ye mean that this parcel o’ wool sorters are t’ strive 
amongst themselves advocating a system o’ work an’ 



56 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

actually dictatin’ t’ their masters how it shall he brought 
aboot?' T come t’ me—” frantically flapping the tips of 
his hairy fingers against his breast— t me whom they 
depend on f’r th’ bite they put in their bellies an th 
clothes they put on their back—hoot—an say how they 
shall an’ shall not labor—t’ me?” almost foaming at the 
mouth. 

“Oh not exactly, not exactly” placidly, “rather let us 
concede they propose an equitable modus operandi —to put 
what they think and what you think together—” 

“What they think?” in a sneering echo. 

“It’s all very plausible to me.” 

“Ah—is it so?” in dry sarcasm. “And suppose we shut 
down the Mill?” Coggeshall shrugged that away coldly. 
“Not to be thought of of course, but a last resort, mind 
that. Here’s the situation in a nutshell, let’s waste no time 
coolin’ porridge that tastes better hot,” emphasizing what 
he said with fingers punching into a rough palm, “we 
pay them living wages; we provide good comfortable 
houses; we furnish them a means of earning an honest 
living the year round, taking all the risk of a bad market 
—no risk for them at all; the hours are long it is true but 
they’re paid for all of them. Now then” with the mag¬ 
nanimous air of a victor, “anyone not liking that can 
leave it—it’s a free country.” Really, his insisting on the 
freedom of the country was enough to convince any ordi¬ 
nary, fair minded man that it was—despite the fact that 
he was the one factor trying to disprove by his actions 
that it was anything but the masterless land he so proudly 
and loftily proclaimed it. 

“Poor old chauvinist” thought Coggeshall. The type 
of humanity now fast taking its place in the misty recesses 
with the dodo, yet making a great clamor as it drifted 
to its eternal resting place. Born himself in the almost 
feudal conditions from which he was forced to flee, he 
saw neither inconsistency nor incongruity in entailing 
posterity with the same heritage—and not being gifted 
enough to credit them with the dubious quality of being 
able to think for themselves. Physically, he looked for¬ 
ward with keenness, mentally, he faced the rear. If one 
of the hands served him faithfully and extricated him- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


57 


self from the entangling muck as he had done, nothing 
would be too good for him, but to concede that same 
virtue to the masses was quite beyond the hard headed and 
hoary minded Scotchman. In vain was spread about the 
country the lesson of the war, he was too just to read 
them, he was of the age when fortunes were beginning to 
swell out of all proportion materially assisted by the 
terrible influx of cheap labor, he could not adjust him¬ 
self readily to the new turn. 

“And that is the rock on which my predecessor split 
is it?” demanded Coggeshall finally. 

“Aye—so, trim your sails differently” darkly; the other 
rose and paced the room from window to window as if 
taking a sudden and overwhelming interest in the dull 
surroundings. 

“I certainly shall” at length in a thoughtful tone that 
set at rest any fears the Old Man may have entertained 
by reason of his mild reception of the state of affairs in 
the Mill. “I am not prepared to say that they shall have 
more wages, I am not prepared to admit that child labor 
is an unmixed evil, I am not conceding that they have a 
shadow of a grievance but—” and he faced Craigie sud¬ 
denly—“I shall consult readily and joyfully with every 
committee they send to wait on me.” At which the shades 
crept over the stubborn face of the Mill owner again—it 
was approaching heresy. 

“Ye’ll flounder as sure as Mannix, I know it” he gritted, 
“But by the lord Harry, we’ll leave ye alone t’do it” 
savagely. Coggeshall only ventured the shadowy and in¬ 
scrutable emotion that passed for a smile—a manifesta¬ 
tion that concealed a world of meaning as the Craigie 
Mill owners and operatives were soon to know. 

“But I haven't said I shall agree to all they ask” he 
went on smoothly,” in fact I may not agree to a solitary 
thing” significantly. “Where you have made your mis¬ 
take, Mr. Craigie, has been in refusing to learn what they 
have begun to think—or think they have begun to think 
—therein depriving yourself of a very handy weapon to 
use upon them later” with a sinister intonation not lost 
on the Old Man. As he finished he was standing close 
to the owner and regarding keenly the face upturned to 





58 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

his as if pleading for just some such crumb of comfort 
his words had offered. 

“Spoken like a fighting man” in unfeigned admiration 
which only provoked Coggeshall to another disagreeable 
inclination of the mobile features as he turned on his 
heel to resume his thoughtful round of the windows. 

“Scrapping’s rather a fad with me” he said as if he 
had been congratulated on his pugilistic ability. “I’m 
aching to match myself against them. It has always 
been a sort of sorrow with me that I have not engaged 
in a strike.” And at the words his shoulders seemed to 
brace, while a deep, smouldering light in the handsome 
eyes betokened something of the fieryness of the Cogges- 
halls, if not the mother who bore him. “It is a good 
time to determine who is running the land.” 

“Oo—aye—” calmly and coldly, “But—in making your 
experiments pray don’t forget that it is another’s property 
you’re experimenting with.” 

“I shall handle the Mill business with the tenderness 
of a mother fondling her first born” he assured him. 
“And now that I know my reason for being here” brisk¬ 
ly, “I should like to look over the territory.” Craigie 
touched a tiny bell on the desk. 

“We have a little old fellow here by the name Malachi 
Clark, a sly rascal, who can take you all over the Mill 
blindfolded and tell every employe by his voice—let 
him show you around and when you return let me see 
you for a moment for a few more words.” 

At this juncture the door slowly and silently swung 
in and the talented Mr. Clark oozed through the aperture 
like a drop of molasses dripping through a hole in a 
slice of bread, disfiguring his quite unpresentable phiz 
with a smile of deprecation for the new super and an 
innocent air calculated to allay any suspicion that he 
might have been taking in the scene in the private office 
through scratches in the frosted pane—which indeed he had 
been. 

Malachi Clark was an (unnecessary to state after hear¬ 
ing his talk) Irishman, handicapped through life with a 
something in his eyes and nose that hinted at a trace of 
the Jew, his hair black as night and thick as wool, as 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 59 

was the ferocious mustache (curling about his nose) that 
he was perpetually caressing with his tongue. Without 
the moving of a muscle of his neck or shoulders his 
eyes had the owl like faculty of searching every corner 
of the room while one tried vainly to determine just what 
he was looking at, he had one crooked shoulder higher 
than its mate with a hip that screwed around and rather 
gave the impression that he was eternally dodging a 
phantom kick. His propitiatory grin for Coggeshall was 
as winning as the scowl of a bull dog and rather than 
prepossessing him in the favor of the super, determined 
that keen student of men to have a wary eye for Mr. 
Clark. 

“Show Mr. Coggeshall through the Mill and introduce 
him to the foremen” Craigie ordered after introducing 
Malachi to him, “and don’t forget to see me when you 
come back.” 

Cogeshall glanced incuriously at the brick building 
as they clattered up the board walk to the main entrance 
with the din increasing at every step. 

“The usual Nineteenth Century Whited Sepulchre” he 
ruminated; but it was a cold and lack lustre introspection 
and was not framed as any indication of sympathy with 
the human souls rotting within nor any intention of bet¬ 
tering their lot. On the contrary the commanding of the 
proletariat rabble was with Winthrop Coggeshall just 
about what cards and liquor had been with his honored 
parent—an absorbing game and a devilish pleasing diver¬ 
sion. If the exigency of the game called for a leaning 
toward the toiler, well and good—if the novelty of the 
thing or the mental stimulation and excitement could be 
increased by a grinding at the behest of the owners— 
better and still better. But life and movement he must 
have—there was a strong tendency to gambling in the 
blood of young Coggeshall. 

Once inside the hallway leading to the weave room the 
clatter became fairly appalling and it was only by dint 
of greatest striving and attention he could catch the edu¬ 
cational observations of his obsequious conductor. He 
threaded his way through the looms roaring like mad and 
presided over in most cases by women, women young and 


60 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

old, erect and bent, fresh and haggard, slim and girlish 
or maternally rounded—but all keenly intent on the 
task before them. Thence up to the spinning room with 
its oil reeking floor and atmosphere where the weary 
spinner paced his bleak round, a wary eye cast hither and 
thither on the slender threads that were to be warp and 
woof of the warm garments; to the dye house with its 
peculiar murk and odor, the orderly store rooms bursting 
with the fruit of the loom, the drafty shipping rooms, 
each and every hole and corner of all flecked with its quota 
of preternaturally alert and wiry youngsters (rollicking, 
when not under the eye of the boss, suspiciously busy 
and occupied when a sixth sense warned of his sneaking 
approach); all of this Malachi revealed to the new super 
as well as the ceremonial introduction to the various fore¬ 
men. 

The business itself was of course an old tale to Cogges- 
hall and he breathed a sigh of relief when he had nego¬ 
tiated the rounds; henceforth he was to have precious little 
actual contact with all this bedlam—he knew how to avail 
himself of the eye of the foreman—it was an easy matter 
to fire one when he failed to report what eventuated into 
a catastrophe. Despite which, sensing from the sarcastic 
guide’s mutterings a possibility of a brewing revolt he 
had kept himself (beneath the mask of nonchalance) on 
the alert for the spotting of possible malcontents. He 
quickly discovered that it was entirely a waste of time 
and energy to quiz his mentor—the malicious Malachi 
had both enemies and friends and was too much the Irish¬ 
man to let slip any opportunity to reveal each openly and 
frankly; so giving him full rein he let him run on in 
his garrulous way until by the time the tour was com¬ 
pleted he pretty well sensed whom he was to watch in 
the Craigie Mill and that without giving Malachi an inkling 
as to his intention. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


61 


CHAPTER VI. 

“The boss weaver” grunted Malachi in his ear and 
Coggeshall turned to acknowledge another introduction, 
“Misther Valentine Crosby” with a sneering drawl and 
inflection that contained more of vituperation and illy 
restrained malice than the new super believed possible. 
He perfunctorily gripped the hand of a young fellow of 
about twenty-four, square shouldered and athletic as a 
college stroke, fair complexioned and with an inside work 
pallor on his clear cheek that was well relieved by a 
slight tinge of healthy ruddiness, blue eyed and open ex- 
pressioned, in marked contrast (and a perfect antithesis) to 
the mocking little crook sneering up at him. 

“Pleased to know yer” Crosby shouted back above the 
clatter and after a hearty exchange they parted; Coggeshall 
slyly studied his guide’s physiognomy which (black enough 
by nature’s arts) seemed to shade to an inky hue in 
going over in his mind some recollection of Crosby flitting 
through his turbid brain. 

“A fine, upright, bright looking chap” he insinuated 
suavely when they had attained a quiet corner; Malachi 
spat viciously. 

“TIT back o’ me hand Chim f’r a dir-rty upstart” he 
gritted savagely; the super masked a look of amusement. 

“A friend of yours?” innocently. 

“He is—not” he ground and wiped him off his mouth with 
the back of his grimy hand, “an’ d you take care he ain’t 
none o’ yours ” darkly. 

“Oh well” as if he were not interested. 

“Ye saw that pretty slip o’ a gir-r-1 back in th’ office? 
Ye did. She tuk y’in t’th’ Ould Man didn’t she? She 
did. Now thin” pausing in blind rage with the discreet 
hip recoiling from possible contact with his boot, “what 
d’ye think o’ that murtherin’ gutther snipe darin’ t’offer 
t’ go wid her? Wid Bridget White, th’ purtiest an’ th’ 
best poor man’s daughter that ever throd shoe leather? 
Now thin.” Coggeshall maintained his air of judicial 
unconcern. 


62 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“Why, as to that, the cat may look at the queen.” 

“We hear enough” sourly. “Well”—with a sly look 
about him and a confidential sinking of the voice, “T is 
him caused poor Mannix t’lose his job.” 

“Yes?” 

“How so did y’ask?” (He hadn’t.) “Be puttinMh’poor 
omadaun up t’takin’ th’ grievances o’th’min in t’th’Ould 
Man.” Aha, so Misther Crosby was a leader was he? 

“Oh, well, Mannix should have had judgment enough 
to be his own guide, Malachi.” 

Malachi’s Adam’s apple wobbled in a strangling manner 
that might have denoted the passing of an oath. 

“How th’divil—savin’ y’r prisince—cud he have whin 
they had th’sthrangle holt on *m an’ left it t’m t’talk ’r 
be boycotted? Bad cess t’thim,” he snarled. 

“Even so” still refusing to commit himself, “the men 
could not have hurt him as badly as the owners did eventu¬ 
ally.” He of course was shrewd enough to sprinkle liber¬ 
ally with salt all that Malachi said of Valentine but there 
was enough in the air to convince him that it was a lead 
to the trail showing the lair of the disaffected in the 
Craigie Mill; he was not above taking any measure to 
run the clue down. 

Back in the office he made a closer study of the pretty 
girl who had dared to fall in love with an enemy of 
Malachi, thus arousing his hatred and scorn, when nothing 
was needed to compass that. Used to all types of femin¬ 
ity he was forced to confess this particular one a pleas¬ 
ing study. She had attained the most tempting and allur¬ 
ing period in life when innocence and guilelessness domin¬ 
ated every word and action; physically, she was of rather 
slender and fragile build but alert and agile, with a ner¬ 
vous, self possessed air and carriage that caught the eye 
at every move; she had a soft pink and white complexion, 
a somewhat generous Irish mouth, eternally smiling in 
friendly greeting, not only about the lips, but in the 
wondrous gray eyes with the long fringes of black that 
rested coyly on the velvety cheek—the entire vision crown¬ 
ed by a wealth of blue black hair rippling and waving 
back in pretty masses. 

On the whole (decided the new super), if it were 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 63 

true that she and the foreman were in love there could 
be no better location for her than in his own office; it 
would go hard with him if between her love for Crosby 
and Malachi’s venom he could not manage to maintain a 
secret espionage over that pugnacious individual. 

“Well?” demanded the Old Man without looking up 
from his letters as he returned from his tour of inspec¬ 
tion. 

“There isn’t a better plant in New England” Cogges- 
hall assured him heartily, “and I am not only sensible 
of the honor done me in asking me to take charge of it 
but deeply flattered by your kind opinion. It all meas¬ 
ures up to McCrae’s estimate.” Craigie looked up at 
him with a sly smile of affable content—too well he knew 
the verdict to be rendered on his beautiful mill even as 
the proud mother knows how wonderful is her progeny. 

“Now then” getting back to business, dropping a hand 
over the back of his chair with his nose glasses swinging 
in his fingers, “I made so bold as to secure you quarters 
in the Park House temporarily—they’re not so very much 

55 

“I thank you for the kind foresight” he broke in grate¬ 
fully, “I’ll look them over, it is possible I may take up 
permanent quarters there.” The Old Man’s eyes were 
twinkling with what must have been one of his silent jokes. 

“Then you’re not by way of having an incumbrance?” 
he insinuated slyly; the new super unbent to the extent 
of responding with a twinkle. 

“I am still more fortunate than sensible” he answered 
dryly. The twinkles deepened while a broad grin over¬ 
spread his solemn countenance. 

“Prefer to be a rag on every bush, eh?” with a cackle 
of joy; then as the other seemed to have had enough of 
the affair he went on quietly. “Now I have a pleasant 
duty to perform—my niece has arranged a trifling little 
affair, a dinner this evening, just an informal business” 
noting the look of negation on Coggeshall’s face, “some 
of our directors and some good friends.” 

“Really—” he began. 

“We both wish it very much,” he coaxed. “You’ll meet 
several people there, it will be well for you to know in 


64 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

the beginning—you may keep on with them or drop them 
as suits yourself after—” which latter view seeming to 
impress him favorably, he assented. After a short ex¬ 
change with Miss White as to his intentions for the day 
and the arrangement of her desk in the future he saun¬ 
tered down town just before the noon whistle to have a 
look at the quarters selected by Craigie. 

No inauguration could have been more auspicious; 
coming as he did full of hints from his mentor McCrae 
that trouble surely brewed in the hitherto pond-like calm¬ 
ness of the Craigie Mill he had had the suspicion quickly 
confirmed by none other than the owner himself. As a 
matter of fact he could plainly perceive that the lines 
of battle were already drawn and that it only remained 
for his inception to have the men test his mettle. At 
which point it would not be amiss to get a closer look 
at Mr. Winthrop Coggeshall and a better insight as to 
his relations with that class of people with whom he was 
to be in contact—but with whom he was as closely allied 
in soul and mind as a visitor from Mars. 

Of a genuine, heart felt sympathy for the unfortunates 
whose existence was an unceasing round of bleak toil 
he could confess none—he simply accepted them as he 
did the elements that supplied him and them life. Pre¬ 
destined to slavery, nature in her scheme of the universe 
had fitted them to the peculiar form of labor to which 
they were eternally condemned—what could be simpler? 
On the other hand, it was perfectly obvious that the same 
discerning and generous nature had invested him by birth 
and training with the requisites necessary to carry on 
the overlordship of this class of her servants. Birth, train¬ 
ing and education all logically tended to a situation whence 
he might look down on them with the dignity and poise 
necessary to point out to them the way they should travel, 
that they might obtain the wherewithal to carry on the 
existence (however degraded or distasteful) that was per¬ 
force incumbent on them. That one of them should aspire 
to assume his divine prerogatives was as preposterous as 
the thought that he could descend to their level. 

Yet he was no devotee of the lash or the goad—oh no; 
humanity decried that there should be a plausible solu- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


65 


tion of a problem by which they were not only to re¬ 
main confined to their bread and butter tread mill but 
actually made to enjoy the sensation—despite the difference 
in his solution and theirs. He was quite willing, even 
eager, to hearken to any complaint that might be made of 
the methods an employer used in compassing this but if 
it didn’t strike him as sufficiently cogent to alter his pre¬ 
conceived notion of the process he felt himself quite at 
liberty to reject the whole tender—regardless of what the 
other might suffer in the rejection. In other words if 
there were a divergence of opinion as to the methods of 
computing the value of the stock in the eyes of the direc¬ 
tors he constituted himself the arbiter of the differences. 
Very simple, very concise, very reasonable any thinking 
person must admit. Yet that this time honored way of 
allaying the miseries of the toilers was no longer thank¬ 
fully accepted by them was beginning to manifest itself 
in the mill town; recent glaring examples pointing out its 
fallacies, accounting in part for the avidity with which 
Coggeshall sprang to the arena in which Mannix had been 
so shamefully manhandled. 

He soon located what passed for a hotel in the little 
town, a pretty, quiet hostelry that promised better ac¬ 
commodation for the carping taste of a confirmed bachelor 
than he had dreamed and after suggesting a few changes 
in the best suite in the house he readily agreed to make 
it his headquarters until summer at least. Sending to the 
station for his trunks and light luggage he simply threw 
them in promiscuously until such time as he could secure 
a capable assistant to help properly arrange his effects; 
his first care, bred of the invitation for the evening, was 
to extract his dress suit to send it to a tailor’s for much 
needed renovation. That day was busily finished in writing 
letters and forming plans for his future stay in Fern 
Park. 

He sallied forth in the gathering gloom and chill of 
the fickle March day, going briskly along the broad, wind 
swept street, up the hill through a cut in which the rail¬ 
road ran, under a venerable old covered bridge, thence 
in a prettily terraced drive that led to the town’s limited 
social quarter and so to the vaunted mansion on the hill, 


66 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


built to the entire satisfaction of the erstwhile poor boy. 
“Sunnysicle” seen in the chill light of a dying day, not 
yet freed from winter, was a rather dark and forbidding 
height but, despite all that, the new comer believed he 
recognized many signs pointing to a certain rugged beauty 
that must enthrall when basking in the rays of a summer 
sun. Craigie’s house in unusual glory was lit from top 
to bottom and in the cheerful rays streaming down the 
gravelled walk he made his way to the prodigious sweeping 
front porch about which dried vines whispered and cracked 
with a promise of creeping verdure in the summer. 

A demure little maid admitted him and as he stepped 
inside, relinquishing his top coat and hat, Craigie him¬ 
self emerged from the rose tinted room on the left lead¬ 
ing a young lady who still clung affectionately to him, as, 
might a child surprised in the very midst of a romp. 

“You’re welcome Mr. Coggeshall” cried the mill owner, 
coming forward with outstretched hand, all trace of the 
money getter and marshaller of men gone, to be replaced 
by a genial, benevolent air of hospitality inseparably con¬ 
nected with his race; accompanying the words after the 
hand shake with a bringing forward of the young woman 
until she confronted the guest. “Permit me, sir, to acquaint 
you with the queen of our household, my niece, Miss 
Colquhon.” She extended her hand with a radiant smile 
and a manner as genial as his own.' 

“Oh but I’m merely a pinchbeck, shoddy monarch” she 
cried with a gay realization of the old man’s favorite joke, 
laughing and shaking her head affectionately at him in 
rebuke; Winthrop, seemingly loath to relax the warm 
clasp of her hand, bent low over it. 

“Behold another subject in your majesty’s realm” he 
breathed and standing erect again as she drew back to the 
shelter of her uncle’s arm he was enabled to favor her with 
a swift but satisfactory appraisal. 

She was of a rather unusual height for a woman but 
beautifully proportioned and carried herself well, face 
and form bearing testimony to the rugged good health 
that characterized every member. The heavy strands of 
dull red hair were rolled up from a neck of dazzling white¬ 
ness, rivalling the pure ripples of ruching encircling it, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


67 


in the then famous “Langtry Roll,*’ above a face that 
couldn’t help but be attractive in its intelligence and ani¬ 
mation, as revealed in every passing emotion. There was 
just a bare suggestion of pearly white arms and neck 
in a slight decollete effect somewhat more alluring (her 
enraptured critic thought) than the bold suggestions of 
the half naked forms to which he had been accustomed 
in the ceremonial gowns of higher society. He compassed 
it in one, long embarrassed sweep of the eye, but the 
return glance of welcome and pleasure was enough to set 
even' the phlegmatic blood of the Puritan (shunner of 
the gentle sex) afire in contemplation of a new type. 

His made the last arrival and going into the big room 
he found himself the immediate cynosure of all eyes. 
In rapid flight he was passed around and introduced to 
Mr. Bunton, director and cashier of the Shawmut in the 
City, his acidulous little wife who knew less of the Mill 
in which her husband’s money was being comfortably 
turned over than she did about Chinese chess or the mis¬ 
sion of the Aztecs; Mr. James the Methodist minister 
whose functions at affairs of this sort consisted in looking 
awful and disagreeing with everybody of whom he was 
not afraid, his wife who was jolly when he permitted her 
to be and by her native vivacity managed to take the edge 
off his crudeness; Miss Bunker, authoress, with an office 
in the City, who chose to get her materials for the an¬ 
thropological sketches she affected from the works of 
gloomy Russian novelists visiting America for the first 
time or disdainful, disagreeable Englishmen who came 
over here to find fault with America, rather than the im¬ 
mense store house of Humanity and Human Relations 
owned and dominated by the man at whose table she broke 
bread nearly every week. Also Prugh and Carter, directors 
in the Craigie Mill who, being bachelors were supposed to 
be inevitable at every function where women congregated. 

The greeting of each was rather of a nature to lead the 
shrewd reader of men to believe that a discussion of him 
had been clipped short by his entrance, as they seemed 
to look about at one another in hopes of spurring the 
others on to take up the thread of the discourse in a 
simple fashion tending to allay suspicion. To the evi- 


63 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

dent relief of all, dinner was announced and giving his 
arm to Miss Colquhoun, the happy Coggeshall was con¬ 
voyed into the cheery dining room. 

“Don’t look as if I were imparting anvthing” she 
smiled quietly, “But I’m going to answer the question 
I know is in your mind—why the Presbyterian Craigie is 
entertaining the Methodist minister.” Really, he was 
startled by this bit of mind reading for it was the thought 
uppermost in his mind as they filed in. 

“Pray enlighten me” with a near grin; under cover 
of the confusion of being seated she managed to enlighten 
him swiftly. 

“Our own minister, Mr. Buchanan is eternally rap¬ 
ping uncle on the labor question—Mr. James has more 
respect for the flesh pots of Egypt” then, with a wicked 
smile that flashed from lip to eye she mimicked:—“ ‘T’ 
take a viper oop is bad enough in a’ conscience—t’ take 
him t’bed wi’ ye is plain folly’,” at which inimitable ren¬ 
dition of the Old Man’s disfavor of listening in church 
to biting sermons (and showing it by dispensing in a 
social manner with the company of his minister) Winthrop 
almost choked. Here was a presage of a lively com¬ 
panion in a dull mill town as evidenced by this funny 
thrust! In a moment the room was aglow with cheer and 
joy; the lusterless forebodings of the afternoon changed 
magically to the roseate hues of a lotus dream. He found 
himself speculating in a flash on the bewildering person¬ 
ality by his side already radiating the something of subtle 
import he had missed in all former intercourse with her sex. 

“Ah—were there—ah—any labor troubles where you 
came from Mr. Coggeshall?” demanded the minister over 
his soup plate to the immense relief of those afraid to 
tackle the new acquaintance on his own ground; it didn’t 
need Grace’s demure glance to prove to the new super 
that this question was in the nature of a range finder, nor 
did it displease him to be enabled to air his views for 
the edification of men who would sooner or later want 
to know them. 

“Oh yes, it is inevitable” gently but unpromisingly—he 
didn’t care to lay down his hand just yet. 

“Ah—and the nature, may I ask? And the—ah— 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 69 

method of dealing with them?” at which every spoon— 
save perhaps that of Grace—was poised awaiting the 
answer. 

“Those things are all dealt with as occasion demands” 
rather coldly, “there are no two alike.” 

‘Any—ah—turbulence?” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Very little” in a tone that might have warned a less 
obtuse inquisitor that he did not like the assumption that 
everything in the nature of a protest on the part of the 
submerged was unlawful and incendiary. “I find that 
there is considerable unrest due—” with a dramatic pause 
as he applied himself to his fish. 

“Yes?” Miss Bunker breathed intently. 

“To the fact that the workers are beginning to note 
how well an amalgamation of interests among the finan¬ 
cial powers is working—engendering a desire to apply it 
to themselves.” 

“Possible?” from Prugh’s heavy lips. 

“Indeed?” unemotionally from Carter. Coggeshall 

maintained his air of imperturbability. 

“I call it” said the dominie, letting his heavy eyes 
roam the table until they lit on the shaggy frown of 
Craigie where they lit hopefully—” “presumptious”; at 
which his wife giggled. The mill master shook his head 
and frowned more deeply while Coggeshall almost sneered. 

“Not altogether—particularly when all parties agree 
on the method and the extent of the union. ” 

“But do I understand you that the owners and share 
holders actually condescend to debate the matter?” de¬ 
manded Bunton in a “Do-my-ears-deceive-me—?” tone of 
voice. Winthrop favored him with the grimace that he 
might construe into a smile or a sneer—just as he chose. 

“They are getting to the point where they are precious 
glad not only to condescend, but even to seek the debate” 
with a directness that seemed to be little less than appall¬ 
ing to the company—with, he thought in wonder, the ex¬ 
ception of the wondrous woman by his side who received 
the news with every indication of perfect equanimity. 
Indeed, he thought he detected in her manner and poise a 
something akin to his own contempt for the crude inquisi¬ 
tion of these emblems of aristocracy. Once aroused, he 


70 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

determined to go on, and resting his hand negligently on 
the napkin beside his plate he swung glances about the 
board with an impartial resume of the company. “When 
they didn’t condescend”—and at this pert repetition of 
the offensive word he knew Grace laughed within her 
soul— “there was an occasional smash and some broken 
heads—and shattered dividends” at which significant re¬ 
tribution Mr. Bunton shuddered and took a modest drink. 

“Mob law” he finally managed to ejaculate under the 
spur of his wife’s accusing eye—she was beginning to be 
nettled that he permitted the minister to absorb so much of 
the spot light. Then Miss Bunker purred into the con¬ 
versation with the unction of the oil bearing virgin. 

“Rather attractive” she murmured, “an excellant set¬ 
ting for the scenario of a drama—for those committed to 
that sort of dramatics.” 

“Too vulgar” snapped Mrs. Bunton at which Mrs. James 
giggled again while Craigie softly murmured something 
and studied his new assistant. 

“Yes,” Coggeshall admitted with a look at the erudite 
Miss Bunker, a look that had set many a society belle in 
a flutter but which recoiled from her adamantine purity 
like soot from a setting of tile, “very dramatic; the only 
objection is the actors ask the audience to pay too much 
for their seats.” That rather hung the red light even on 
the pestiferous parson. 

“Er—1 rather fancy—I don’t think I exactly catch—” 
CoggeshalTs lip curled and he could have sworn he saw 
Grace wink over her glass. 

“It has simply got to the point where the length of the 
struggle determines how much the public will have to pay 
in the way of damages, eventually; whichever crows first 
must share with the defeated one what they both pluck 
from the innocent bystander.” 

“Well” Mr. James aspirated thankfully, “we have been 
very fortunate in our community in having nothing of 
that sort to disturb us.” Winthrop elevated cynical eye¬ 
brows. 

“Do I understand you to render thanks to the Creator 
for endowing you with a lack of perception?” he de¬ 
manded tartly; Mr. James tried to look wise but was much 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


71 


relieved when Carter snorted peevishly and Prugh groaned. 

“I fear we are a trifle obtuse Mr. Coggeshall” dryly 
from the master of the house, “or possibly—” 

“Pardon me if I don’t follow the vernacular” he smiled 
faintly, enjoying their confusion the more that Grace 
seemed to enjoy it too, “but I must insist that if you have 
no labor troubles it is because you refuse to have them. 
Fern Park is due for a terrible awakening.” At this 
Grace broke in. 

“ ‘Perhaps your new book is to be built along these lines 
Miss Bunker?” she said lightly. She blushed; up to this 
very moment indeed she would have scorned the impu¬ 
tation that she descended to dirty labor circles for material 
for her lucubrations but under the impulse of emotions 
aroused by the erudite Harvard man together with his 
evident interest in the subject she began to wish she had 
devoted a minute or two to a solution—novelly—of labor 
troubles. 

“No,” she admitted sorrowfully, “my new book is a 
resume of the ideals of Colonial Days when such situations 
never arose.” Coggeshall laughed to himself—he recog¬ 
nized the symptoms. But the question afforded her a 
chance to turn the conversation into more congenial chan¬ 
nels—whatever the preacher might think—and gave her 
a chance for argument with the keen college man, not so 
much to show his versatility, as to reveal her profound 
knowledge. But before very long she was wondering 
whether she had chosen wisely or not as he deliberately 
led her into fields as yet uncharted by her with an as¬ 
sumption of mocking interest that swiftly changed to grim 
contempt as she floundered about to relocate her drifted 
buoys. Unluckily for poor Mr. James too he inadver¬ 
tently drifted into theology where the infidel Coggeshall 
quietly poked fun at him until Grace, in very pity for 
the wretched flounderer, gave the signal for rising. 

Later, in the drawing room he received his recompense 
in patient waiting for Grace to reveal herself, as she, as 
if sensing his approach to ennui, sought to make up for it 
by a miraculous intermingling of piano and voice. And 
such a voice! There was a native talent far beyond the 
realm even of the many professionals with whom he had 


72 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


come in contact in his pleasure loving career and when 
in response to a request of her uncle she dropped into the 
old Scotch airs, the fiery ones that conjured the flaming 
cross on hill after hill, the pathetic ones that recalled the 
days of Bruce and Wallace, the charming ones that lilted of 
home and family—he fairly felt himself elevated above and 
beyond his usual demeanor, for it must be remembered 
there was in him the blood of a race which too lives in 
the past and arouses the generations that come by a re¬ 
cital of the glory of the dead. It was with a tinge of 
genuine sorrow there came a signal to break up in defer¬ 
ence to the early leaving hours of the Puritanic spirit that 
dominated Fern Park. 

He loitered back alone very slowly in the face of a 
rising storm, his mind running over (not with mill prob¬ 
lems) but with a rapt vision of a Scotch lass with a voice 
and a soul—they fairly haunted him as he picked his 
happy way to the hotel. And very much out of the ordi¬ 
nary rut was this train of thought that comprehended a 
woman and perhaps he was suffering the more for his 
past neglect. The joys of celibacy faded perceptibly. In 
his room, long after midnight he lingered, pretending to 
he employed with his effects but really loath to permit 
slumber to intervene and shut out the glorious vision so 
recently conjured. His mind was a perfect riot of the 
beautiful Grace Colquhoun. He gave over finally with 
a happy sigh. 

“That’s a woman I could marry” he told his delighted 
soul as he turned off the lights and crept into his bed. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


73 


CHAPTER VII. 

March, New England March, fickle, gloomy and dis¬ 
turbing, on the following day reverted to type and gave 
ugly manifestation of its favorite traits. With the east 
wind that the day before had been of a stimulating char¬ 
acter had come in the night a sea wrack, a mist flirting 
along with a depressing atmosphere, caused, as every 
weather prophet averred, by reason of the sun crossing 
the “line,” hence the “line storm.” Very alert and busi¬ 
ness-like the persistent scudding mists dripped into the 
slowly thawing ground with a despairing patter, to the 
accompaniment of chilling blasts raging in fury for hours, 
unrelenting, the quintessence of dreariness. 

The highways were quickly churned into sandy puddles 
through which the disgusted drivers, from behind their 
heavy tarpaulin shields, urged on their equally dispirited 
nags plunging along with a monotonous “chug-chug.” 
The Neponset, but lately emancipated from its winter pall 
of ice flowed in a black, sullen line through frowning 
banks; lowering clouds swept the crest of Blue Hill, ob¬ 
scuring as if in ridicule, the harbinger of weather hanging 
limply from its towering staff. On all sides, everywhere, 
swiftly following the hopes of yesterday, gloom, dejection 
and cheerlessness. 

Back to the damp houses again, away from the one 
reviving tonic, the pure air, went the luckless consump¬ 
tives, huddling again by the hopeless fire in a vain search 
for protection from the choking dampness cramping their 
enfeebled lungs, peering out of mournful eye sockets at 
the slow fading world, battling piteously with every sense 
aquiver; hoping a proof of the old superstition that the 
one surviving the coming of the leaves would live to see 
the going—living on hopes alone. They sat in listless 
pathos, to watch the rain drops spatter against the misty 
panes, trickle aimlessly down the rattling sash, losing them¬ 
selves as surely and effectually as the watcher felt he was 
losing himself. 


74 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

But there was good cheer within the cobbler’s tiny shop 
on the corner, a sense of snug comfort intensified by con¬ 
trast with the bleak outside world. A huge boot hanging 
out over the porch bore the inscription in red, “M. Gil¬ 
bert, Boots & Shoes, Made & Repaired” although it had 
been many a year—perhaps not since the war—that the 
little cobbler had turned out a pair of “custom made 
boots”. From the sill above the door a bell on a bent 
hoop jangled fiercely with each opening as a warning 
to the proprietor of the approach of a customer in the 
few moments he was off his bench. 

Mr. Gilbert was there today as usual, his arched back 
turned to the window to gain over his shoulder what nig¬ 
gardly beams the gray day afforded; later, when they 
failed entirely, he would light the greasy kerosene lamp 
hanging over his head in a rusty triangle, the chimney of 
which was topped by a tin reflector that, throwing a cir¬ 
cumscribed glow of light, forced him to lean forward 
into its dazzling circle, whence he inspected his own work 
or the proffered task of a customer thrusting the unkempt 
footwear in out of the uncanny darkness, like a phantom. 
Nor was he lacking on this day of gloom a necessary com¬ 
radeship to lighten the depressed spirit. 

One was none other than our old friend Larry Cole¬ 
man, no longer the crude appearing, apple cheeked “green 
horn” but a mature, sober faced, even voiced man of 
middle age, sitting with the unwonted gravity out of keep¬ 
ing with his old polity, reflectively drawing on his 
blackened “T.D”. The hair seen fringing his hat bore 
a suspicion of grayness, his form was as robust as ever and 
slightly thickened as became age, the twinkling eye was as 
keen as of old—in short, the years following the dark ones 
of ’60-’65 had dealt as generously with the kindly Irishman 
as he dealt with his fellows. The hat pushed back off 
his smooth brow was the military slouch of war days, 
his clothing, the neat blue of the service, while in the 
lapel of his coat he proudly carried the reminder of his 
services to the land of his adoption—the bronze button of 
the G. A. R. 

Opposite, and arrogating—as usual—the initiative, the 
continuance and the death of every discussion, sat a 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 75 

notable who in a community that boasted many aspirants 
for the dubious post of universal intermeddler, carried 
off the palm, Mike Allen. This worthy, the most con¬ 
spicuous physical feature of whom was a Garibaldi jacket 
inseparably connected with his form, also sought solace 
in the more or less fragrant weed, while he revolved in 
his head the many things that made of him a pig-headed, 
arrogant, contumacious wrangler; characteristics war¬ 
ranted to make of anyone else an unmitigated nuisance 
only serving to render the owl like Michael piquant. 
Despite a limited education—that he professed to scorn— 
he was endowed by nature with a remarkably retentive 
memory and a shrewd judgment that at times elicited utter¬ 
ances almost bordering on the prophetic, and a craving 
for books. Right or wrong, he bore down every opponent, 
not so much by an accurate knowledge of the subject 
under discussion—as indeed he argued best on that sub¬ 
ject of which he knew least—but by a clever use of 
scientific terms (often incomprehensible to himself) and 
foreign sounding phrases utterly unassailable which passed 
—as they do in higher circles than Mike’s—for erudition. 

He had cunningly culled a group of Latin maxims from 
a dictionary that sonorously and pompously delivered 
with an ad lib interpretation of his own simply tied to the 
stake the most contumacious contender for polemic honors. 
No nearer the war than a cool and calculating tempera¬ 
ment permitted him to approach, he nevertheless posed 
as a strategist and censor of campaigns, volubly holding 
forth on the conduct of campaigns and the manner of 
famous retreats with the certainty of an old campaigner, 
while his friend Larry (who had fought in many a big 
battle for four years) preserved a respectful, discreet 
silence. More, while Mike was enthusiastically for settling 
everything by a recourse to arms, Larry rather gave the 
impression that he would do anything ere he again aroused 
the dogs of war. Add to this a fierce, picturesque, un¬ 
yielding, malignant hatred for England and English gov¬ 
ernment with all its pomps, works and pretensions—and 
you have a pretty fair notion of the sort of hair pin the 
boon companion of Coleman was. 

In fair accord with the weather, the trio maintained a 


76 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


long drawn, dismal silence, broken only by the inter¬ 
mittent pounding of the cobbler or the swish of rain on 
the foggy glass; Gilbert, in dense silence, caressed the 
leather, waxed his threads, pried with his awl, and pinched 
his sooty nose with a dingy forefinger and thumb at in¬ 
tervals, while his guests sucked moodily on the vicious 
clay pipes; each seemed loath to break the lugubrious 
silence. From an adjoining room, the living apartments 
of the Gilbert tribe, emanated (as the afternoon wore 
away) tantalizing evidences of a big repast; two of the 
children worked in the Craigie Mill and not caring to 
come home to dinner the big meal of the day was re¬ 
served for evening when all sat in together. 

Today, if the acute senses of the visitors did not belie 
them, the evidence favored the concoction of that dearly 
loved repast consisting, in a big iron pot, of a good deal 
of boiling water, a gigantic roll of corned beef snugly 
bound with cords to give it a tasty shape when brought 
out again to serve coldly, lunches, a good big measure of 
peeled potatoes, white and yellow turnips, sliced, a hunk 
of cabbage—all steaming and hissing cozily and peace¬ 
fully over the coal fire. Once in a while the gathering 
steam became hilarious and bounced the tin lid off, per¬ 
mitting a stream of succulent odors to waft themselves 
to the shop in ever increasing waves of appetizing ex¬ 
pectancy. 

Finally, with a sly wink at the cobbler, Larry began 
innocently an air with a lilt and swing to it that aroused 
even the gloomy Mike to such an extent that first one 
foot and then the other began to twitch and shuffle in un¬ 
conscious tempo until he was on the verge of breaking 
into a dance—at which measure Larry suddenly broke off 
and with a well assumed look of scorn and disgust broke 
into ironical criticism of the performance. 

“There y’ are” he jeered the wondering Mike, “fine 
specimen of an Irishman ain’t ye, dancin’ t’ “Croppies lie 
Down!” For just one seething moment Mike was silent, 
then his nimble wit came to the rescue. 

“I was not,” he declared flatly, “I was not dancin’—I 
was threadin’ th’ bloody Orangemen under me fut!” 

“Tell that t’ th’ marines!” he sneered back. Apparently 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


77 


satisfied with his manner of awakening the chagrined 
Mike he went on finally. “Have ye seen th’ new super 
vet?”, not caring to arouse further contention. Mr. Gil¬ 
bert took a fistful of tacks, threw his head back, rolled the 
tacks into his mouth like a man taking a good drink, while 
his eyes rolled after the manner of a chicken imbibing, 
and shook his head in solemn negation. 

“I have not” admitted Mike with regret that he had to 
admit anything. The little cobbler began snatching the 
nails from his mouth and deftly pounding them into the 
sole strapped across his knees. 

“I hear he’s young an’ clever an’ bears a good reper- 
tation as a boss; anyhow” staring in deep reflection at 
his pipe bowl, “he has a good name.” 

“Coggeshall it is—an’ what’s distinctive about that 
name?” growled Mike testily, to whom no name sounded 
particularly attractive unless it bore a reflection of an 0 
or a Mac. 

“ 4 Twas th’ name o’ me captain” sighed Larry pensively, 
“him that was kilt in Virginia” gazing with unseeing eyes 
out into the storm. 

“Well,” persisted the truculent Michael, not to be denied 
the pleasure of refuting the honor attached to any alien 
name, “I knowed a man onct wid jus’ such a name an" if 
ye was t’ take th’ profanity out o’ his conversation there’d 
be nawthin’ left but a hiss an’ a spit.” Larry not deeming 
this insinuation worthy of an answer remained silent; 
he ran on triumphant!v. “Anyway, Mannix got out just 
in time—he did so.” 

“How’s that Mike?” 

“There’s a strike coinin’ ” which being news indeed was 
received with looks of consternation both by Larry and 
the silent cobbler. The latter paused in his rapid pound¬ 
ing, hammer poised over the sole, while Larry started 
visibly. 

“Name o’ God man—d’ye tell me?” he gasped. Mike 
nodded long and soberly while he sucked on his odorous 
pipe. 

“They’ve organized down in th’ Rookery an’ they’re 
goin’ t’ prisint their grievances t’ th’ Ould Man.” 

“An’ d’ ye think he’ll give—” 





78 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“Him give, is it?” he scoffed loudly. “Him that’d 
chase a flea across th’ plains f’r its hide?” He laughed 
jeeringly. “What talk have ye, man!” 

“Well—an’ what do they want?” asked the pacific Larry. 
Mike having cut enough for a pipeful off his plug of 
Mayo, ground the tobacco in his calloused palms, stuffed 
the crumbs down the bowl, topped them off with the ashes 
of the former pipeful (as carefully preserved as would be 
the ashes of his ancestors) and leaned forward to the tiny 
stove about which they were grouped for the doing of a 
bit of almost incredible necromancy; consisting of rolling 
a live coal out of the pit and taking it up in his fingers 
to light his pipe—a performance always viewed with 
lively interest on the part of every beholder, not only 
because of its clever dexterity, but, because of the secret 
hope that he would one day make a mess of the affair 
and be duly punished. A few hearty draws assuring him 
that the operation was a success, he placed on the top 
of the bowl the tin cap hanging from the stem by a wire 
and slapping his palms together in a curtailed cleansing 
process, finally deigned a reply. 

“Th’ abolishin’ o’ child labor f’r one thing; th’ raisin’ 
o’ wages f’r another; th’ shortenin’ o’ th hours o’ labor 
f’r another thing.” Larry gave vent to a groan of des¬ 
pair while the little cobbler, seeming to find the occasion 
too deep for mere words took it out in a fierce pounding 
on the sole fitted over the last. 

“We hear enough” sarcastically, “an’ what’ll they do 
whin he refuses?” 

“Sthrike” in calm tones from out the haze of blue 
smoke. “So ye see Mannix has passed th’ burden on t’ 
Coggeshall—God save him” ironically. 

“Mannix was no man to do no man’s dirty work” Larry 
cried in as near a heat as his placid nature permitted. 
“He was wid th’ hands f’rm beginin’ t’ end.” 

“Thrue f’r ye—an’ now see where he is.” 

Engrossed as they were in the latest topic of the town 
they all failed to note a figure across the street garbed 
in a long Mackintosh and sou’wester standing in evident 
perplexity and indecision, but who suddenly seemed to 
make his mind up about something, showing it by plung- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


79 


ing across the muddy street before the cobbler’s shop and 
on to the porch where his impatient stamping was the 
first intimation to those within of his approach. He halted 
a moment with one hand on the latch to snatch his head 
piece off and dash the drops away against the door sill, 
after which he stepped inside to gaze about in the semi¬ 
gloom outside the rim of light from the lamp. 

“I was told” he began with that easy approach of manner 
that was a winner in high or low circles of society, “that 
if I stopped at Gilbert’s shoe shop I could get any in¬ 
formation of the neighborhood I desired” with a half smile 
at the astonished cobbler leaning around the line of light 
to gaze up in open mouthed astonishment at this un¬ 
looked for tribute to the popularity of his tiny work place; 
dropping the hammer on the bench beside him and slip¬ 
ping the strap off his knee he was about to reply—when 
the ubiquitious Mike took the words out of his mouth. 

“There’s manny a thrue wor-rd uttered in jest” he con¬ 
ceded sagely at which Coggeshall turned to favor him 
with a casual glance—not overly friendly, either. But 
before the cobbler (his mouth still agape with the slowly 
formed answer to the stranger’s words) could frame a 
sensible response to his declaration Larry, who on first 
seeing the new comer had turned ghastly pale, came slowly 
to his feet, rubbing his eyes as if aroused from slumber, 
took a step toward him; then with quivering lips and 
twitching eyelids he scrutinized the dripping stranger as 
if he had risen from the river. 

“Indeed?” the latter sneered at Mike, then turning 
again to the cobbler, “I’m the new superintendent of the 
Craigie Mill, Coggeshall is my name—” 

“Coggeshall!” broke from the pallid lips of Larry in 
a voice that caused every eye to turn on him instantly, 
“Coggeshall” between a sob and a groan, while the 
stranger, rather taken aback by this peculiar reception 
stood in baffled surprise awaiting a sensible response to 
his first words, “an’—an’ your father’s name sor?” coming 
to him with slow steps and hungry regards, arms out¬ 
stretched as if he would clasp him to his bosom. For an 
instant the aristocrat gazed his contempt for this abrupt 
interrogatory, his eyes rather flashing in anger; then seem- 


80 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


ing to perceive a little of humor in it all proceeded to 
gratify the fellow’s curiosity. 

“Nehemiah Cogeshall” frigidly, slapping his hat again 
to rid it of the drops. Larry emitted a low, glad cry. 

“God in heaven” he cried rapturously “I knowed I cud- 
dent be mistaken” his voice quivering with a sob, holding 
silent even the loquacious Mike. “T’would take nawthin’ 
but th’ beard t’ have himsel’ standin’ befure me— wirra, 
ivirra!” 

“You knew him then?” in amazed incredulity. 

“Knew him?” with tears in his voice, “Knew him? Boy, 
boy—’twas in these ar-rms he died!” thrusting them out 
with a simple gesture that was the summit of the dramatic. 
Now the imperturbable Coggeshall was startled; throwing 
aside his wet coat he took a long stride in the direction of 
the beaming and half weeping Coleman, placed both 
hands on his shoulders to fix him with a gaze more ap¬ 
proximating gentleness and concern than had lighted them 
since his grandmother had received his last caress. 

“Your name?” 

“Larry Coleman—I wint out wid him f’rm Readville 
an’ never let him out o’ me sight ’till—’till—” but at 
sight of the appealing countenance so nearly allied to 
the old beloved one he broke down with a sob. 

“Go on, go on,” almost sternly, and Larry, making room 
for him on the bench he had just quitted, prepared to 
obey. 

“Do avick’’' interpolated Mike eagerly, who began to 
have a strong notion that the affair might be pulled olf 
without his assistance—the pair was ignoring him shame¬ 
lessly, contemptuously. The shadows outside the tiny 
lamp were beginning to accentuate with the coming of 
the early, murky evening; on the very brim Larry and the 
super sat while the cobbler and Mike leaned around the 
circle the better to gain every word and gesture. 

“We was doin’ advance skirmish duty, ’twas gettin’ light 
of a soft summer morning’ wid th’ bir-rds singin’ an’ th’ 
calls o’ bugle soundin’ acrost th’ big hills—I c’n hear 
it all yet. He c’m out o’ th’ bit o’ grove we’d been hid 
in all night, jus’ beyant th’ hill—I c’n see him at this 
blessed minit as plain as I c’n see you sor; suddenly, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


81 


their line o’ sharpshooters—an’ they was divils—began 
t’ pick us off, we fell back agin aisily, havin’ our or-ders 
t’ do so; as I tur-rned t’ get me bearin’s I saw him stagger 
an ’clap his hand so, t’ his breast; I run t’wards him, 
’twas a Minnie; I dragged him back, they was a call f’r 
help—” he lived the awful moment over again in the 
death like stillness of the room, apparently oblivious to 
his curious audience. 

“As he lay in me ar-rms he begun t’ gasp; I thried t’ 
give him a drop fr’m me canteen but the blood gushed 
fr’m his mouth—he smiled up at me—‘Good-bye Larry,’ 
he sez, ‘Good-bye wor-rld—’ his eyes rolt—he was gone.” 
Coggeshall’s hand stole over until it clasped the rough 
hand of the relator—gripping it firmly, he regarded the 
good fellow with a look so close to affection as to illum¬ 
inate his cold face with a light almost spiritual. It was 
the first clear account of the death of the man whom he 
had always been taught to look upon as a hero and martyr. 

“And you think I resemble him?” Larry took one more 
long, earnest look at the handsome, aristocratic features 
and threw up his hands in a surrender to the inexplicable. 

“Y’re th’ spit o’ him,” he cried, “ ’twas me tuk ye t’ yer 
grandmother’s in Ashburton Place th’ mornin’ y’r own 
mother—Lor-rd ha’ mercy on her sowl—died.” Still an¬ 
other link binding him to this simple child of Erin, and 
if Coggeshall detected a difference in the tone employed 
in describing the two parents he gave no indication. 

“I have the faintest recollection of being taken there” 
he mused, “but I have absolutely no recollection of my 
father or you in connection with the trip, I was raised 
by my grandmother—she spoke to the last moment of 
him—but your intimation—outside of my own human 
intelligence—is the first that I ever had a mother.” 

“And this fortchnit meetin’—afther all these years— 
glory t’ God but it’s lucky” reverently. Before Cogges¬ 
hall could reply Mike skipped into the spot light. 

“ ‘Fortuna favet fatuis ’ ” he quoted easily and grace¬ 
fully; the stranger, the sole being he had dumped his 
quondam erudition on in many a day who comprehend¬ 
ed it turned on him savagely, a nasty rebuke on his lips 
—then as suddenly checked the angry outburst at a sly 


82 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

wink from Larry. “Which,” he ran on blandly, “bein’ 
freely thranslated is, as ye might say, ‘Luck an’ wisdom 
don’t go together.’ ” 

“Of which you seem to be a living exemplification” 
coldly, which latter word being far beyond the astute 
Michael, floored him for the time being. 

“But what brought ye here sor?” Larry demanded in 
order to lead the talk into safer channels. 

“I need a handy man about the place, a discreet, 
honest fellow” with a look at Mike intended to convey 
the impression that it was somewhat on the order of his 
opposite he desired, “to look after my horses, my luggage, 
run errands—” Larry laughed in childish joy. 

“Say no more sor—how’ll I do?” 

“Will you come though? By jove” he almost shouted, 
“say, you’re not joking,” but he quickly perceived Larry 
was in dead earnest. 

“Oh I’ll wor’rk f’r ye sor—make no doubt o’ that—” 

“On your own terms—” Larry threw up a deprecating 
hand—. “I insist, your own terms, only let me know 
you’ll come” with a delight mirroring that of the beam¬ 
ing Larry, while the other two gazed at each other in 
speechless surprise and admiration. 

“An’ where are y’ goin’t’put up sor?” in a perfect quiver 
of delight. 

“At the Park House—and you’ll come right away won’t 
you Larry?” with a wistful pleading that could not be 
resisted even although his auditors never dreamed that 
all his life he had commanded rather than coaxed. Larry 
was now studying him intently as if fearful of uttering 
the words that persisted in trembling on the tip of his 
tongue. At length he ventured, 

“But how comes it—axin’ y’r pardon—y’r doin’ this 
kind o’ wor’rk—sure it ain’t a Coggeshall’s kind—ye 
haven’t,” in a hoarse whisper, “lost y’r money—” but 
Coggeshall shook his head and laughed easily. 

“Not quite as bad as that Larry, maybe I’ve lost my 
head—but it’s a hobby of mine, at some other time and 
under more favorable auspices,” with an accusing glance 
at the quivering Mike, (itching for an opportunity to 
edge into their orbit), “I’ll explain it all.” The abashed 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


83 


Michael sucked noisily on his pipe—and reflected. Larry 
shook his head. 

“Y’r father had queer notions too sor, I hope—” he 
checked him with a gesture. 

“Never mind, I’ll prove to you that I am sincere—con¬ 
sider the engagement of yourself the best proof of it.” 
He again gripped the hand of the new found friend and 
rising, took up his coat and hat preparatory to sallying 
into the storm again, disdaining the slightest notice of 
the prostrate Mike who vainly hemming and hawing sought 
to draw sufficient attention to himself to risk a passage 
at arms with the haughty aristocrat. His hand sought 
the door latch, but before he could secure it it snapped 
down and with a jangle of the harsh warning bell the 
door swung open to admit another visitor to the genial 
oasis of the cozy little shop. 


84 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER YIII. 

“God save all here” in hearty accents, wafted in on 
the wings of the raw atmosphere, as Father O’Connor 
stepped briskly inside, hailing them with that affectation 
of the old Irish greeting that proclaimed him a true des¬ 
cendant of the Old Sod. 

“Well thin, God save you kindly father” was the 
chorused reply as all came to their feet respectfully to 
greet the new comer; he shook the rain drops from his 
umbrella, making an involuntary shudder of chill as he 
set it behind the door and then turned to be confronted 
by the retiring Coggeshall. For a brief instant they 
regarded each other in polite curiosity. 

“This is Mr. Coggeshall, th’ new superintindint, Father 
O’Connor” Larry made haste to explain and at this sort 
of introduction they instinctively extended hands, still 
keenly eyeing each other, and, with a perfunctory clasp, 
murmured the conventional words of pleasure at the meet¬ 
ing. Which safely accomplished, the retiring guest made 
a comprehensive bow that took in the entire shop, offered a 
few words to Larry concerning his destination and then 
stepped out into the slanting sheets of rain to be quickly 
swallowed up in the gloom fast settling over the land. 

Father O’Connor was not the parish priest of St. Mi¬ 
chael’s; he had been sent here immediately following his 
ordination to act as curate to Father Byrne and quickly 
found himself in control of the congregation by reason 
of the sudden illness of the pastor who had been ordered 
to the south for the winter, if not longer. It was simply 
a case of being run down by reason of the anxieties at¬ 
tached to the gathering of funds for the completion of 
the splendid church, together with a slight disposition to 
lung weakness, that neglected for long, must inevitably 
end as did all such weaknesses in the awful New England 
climate. As he himself laughingly confessed, he had 
been fortunate in obtaining a green curate for had the 
unhappy Father O’Connor known what faced him in a 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


85 


poverty stricken parish he most assuredly would have 
hesitated about rushing in “where angels fear to tread/’ 

That was why on a day that every sane creature was 
hugging the fireside he was about his mission, striving 
against overwhelming odds to keep the collections up 
to the alloted mark and thus enable the finishing touches 
to be put on the church, rubbing shoulders constantly 
with a degree of poverty to whom giving, rather than 
taking, would seem more in order. In the few months 
he had been among them he had become the idol of the 
toilers by reason of his sturdy faith in Divine help and 
cheery refusal to be downcast or chagrined by anv tem¬ 
porary back set. Had he been engaged in raising the 
money for his own personal needs or comfort he could 
not have been more persistent. With the Irish portion 
of the congregation, especially, was he a favorite; de¬ 
voted home lovers themselves, with a passionate devotion 
to the family hearth and their children, they could right¬ 
ly value the love of a man for his Master in voluntarily 
renouncing for His sake all this, the better to serve Him— 
precisely as all humanity has an innate reverence and 
respect for that virtue in which it itself is lacking. 

He was perhaps a trifle younger than Coggeshall, of a 
wiry but not robust build, thin featured and with a com¬ 
plexion that like his thick hair rather bordered on the 
red, with features dominated by the keen gray eye and 
generous, mobile mouth of the Celt. With lots more 
self pampering and oceans less worry, it is possible the 
well knit and erect form might round out into generous 
proportions, but as he himself explained, (with the in¬ 
imitable twinkle of the eye that was irresistible), it was 
absolutely necessary in work of this kind for one to keep 
one’s self trained to the minute, lithe and supple, in order 
to put up a good contest with the niggardly, or run from 
the obstreperous. 

“A bad day—glory be to God!” he laughed as he took 
the stool pushed up to the cheery little stove fairly be¬ 
seeching comradeship in its complelling warmth, “and 
how are you knocking them Michael?” Mike grinned. 

“Over th’ropes father—ask Larry.” He favored his 
crony with a beaming glance. “He’s in bad luck father, 


86 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

he’s been goin’ about beggin’ f’r wor-rk an’ prayin’ t’God 
he wouldn’t find it—now he’s got a job.” 

“Wid Mr. Coggeshall” Larry explained. 

“Aha, I’m glad to hear that Larry—and for more reasons 
than one” with a significance not lost on the grinning 
group. The little cobbler rubbed the waxed ends of his 
thread furiously over his aproned knee and swallowed— 
apparently—fistfuls of tacks as if to divert the money 
seeking enemy for a time at least, while the loquacious 
Mike tried to look as unprosperous as possible. 

“Ye know I wuddent f’rget ye father annywav” Larry 
reproached him: “true, I ain’t done as well in th’past as 
I might but—d’ye think now twinty dollars ’d be enough 
t’start?” In an instant the ever ready note book was in 
his hand and his pencil hurrying over the page, the wonder¬ 
ful book whence on the Sunday following he would read 
the donations and givers, thus affording joy to those who 
had contributed in noting the embarrassment of those who 
had not. 

“That’s just as you say, Larry—and it’s an excellent 
start ” with an emphasis that made Mike shiver. Mike 
gritted his teeth somberly as he rapidly cogitated his 
chances of making any sort of a show without hurting his 
pocket book or standing with a censorious and critical 
community. Before the fatal question could be put to 
him however there came a slight reprieve in the shape of 
an interruption caused by the appearance in the door¬ 
way between the rooms of the shop and kitchen of the 
cobbler’s generously proportioned wife. Mrs. Gilbert 
with a deep bow and broad smile for the young priest, 
poised in the doorway to scrutinize the little group as 
she wiped her toil roughened hands on her gingham 
apron while two very, very dirty children squeezed be¬ 
tween her ample limbs and the door frame to peer from 
the protection of her skirts in mingled doubt and fear 
at the new comer. 

Suddenly alert to the inevitable attention they would 
command she premised any remarks by a swift toilet 
which was compassed by a sudden descent on their cherubic 
countenances with her moist apron; after which, with a 
dexterity engendered by long and frequent practice, she 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


87 


covered a finger and thumb with the apron, then gripping 
first one nose and then the other, gave them a vicious but 
effectual tweak which, while it brought tears of agony 
and rage to the eyes of the innocents, was accomplished 
with such neatness and despatch that ere the muffled 
howl of pain of the first had sounded the operation had 
been successfully performed on the other. Quite satis¬ 
fied with the result of the impromptu and unwished for 
ablution (on the part of the sufferers at least) she stuck 
her brawny arms akimbo and peered into the shop. 

“Are ye havin’ much luck father?” she asked; he 
nodded in the usual bright and satisfied manner. 

“Elegant!” he declared enthusiastically, “Where I don’t 
get the money I get a fine excuse—plenty of variety too 
as there are no two alike” he laughed. “Really” he ran 
on, “I never valued the versatility of the English language 
until I heard the ways it could be employed in covering 
the intentions of my people.” They joined in the laugh 
at that, not altogether mirthful either, in the recollection 
that this was not for himself—he taking nothing as his 
share but the rebuffs. Clever Irishman that he was he 
knew the potency of the smile as contrasted with the 
scowl. 

“Thank God f’r that, I’m mighty glad t’hear it.” 

“And now Matty” turning to the silent partner—no 
polite fiction in this case—“What are we to expect from 
you?” dallying with the pencil as if eager to put it to 
work. Thus directly appealed to Mr. Gilbert rapidly 
punched his awl and hammered his pegs that he might 
clear his mouth to answer, casting as he did so, sly looks 
at his well developed sharer of joys, work and offspring. 
Mike and Larry winked furtively at each other in an¬ 
ticipation of a domestic comedy for they knew only too 
well that bearding the pair at once in their den, Father 
O’Connor was taking an unfair advantage of a well known 
weakness. 

It was no secret that the mild mannered cobbler did not 
—not to put the matter too bluntly—wear that article 
of apparel that indubitably stamps the wearer as master 
of the household; everything he contrived or promised 
had to receive the official stamp of approval of the “mis- 


88 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

thress” a mere word being the signal of rejection or ac¬ 
ceptance. In the present instance (had he been alone in 
the shop), he would have donated the amount commen¬ 
surate with his station in the community, secure in the 
reflection that it would have to be O.K’d. by the power 
above who would veto or ratify as she saw fit—he profit¬ 
ing for his pains were he wrong in his estimate by a 
“jawing”—to which by the way long usage had innured 
him—or a curt silence had he happened—as he seldom 
did—to suit her notions of propriety. But with the chief 
executive of the firm present the award would have to be 
made publicly—the result being that if he proffered too 
much—which he was likely to do under the ironical scru¬ 
tiny of the loungers—it meant a very disagreeable cur¬ 
tain lecture for him, while, if he proffered less than she 
deerried fit, he would subjected to the humiliation and 
mortification of a public censure. Like too many mar¬ 
ried men an alternative meant nothing to him. 

Is it to be wondered at then that irj the tense silence 
the awl came out and the wooden peg went reluctantly 
to the leather, as he came nearer and nearer the emptying 
of his mouth, or that he looked long and judicially at 
the old shoe a tiny girl had just thrust into the cone 
of light, or paused to shake his head over a tap just 
completed, and which needed only the stain of ink to 
give it the finished touch? He could feel the eyes of his 
tormentors glaring at him across the gleaming circle, 
while he prayed for help. 

“Times ha’ been pretty hard this winter Father” she 
finally sighed, to his immense relief, which he corrobor¬ 
ated by a dismal shake of the head and pinch of his 
nose, adding a fresh touch of smut thereby, “not much 
wor’rk an’ that little not all paid f’r—” 

“I know, I know it Mrs. Gilbert” he broke in with 
a sympathetic note in his voice, only too swiftly and 
surely sensing the tone of distress in being obliged to 
thus procrastinate. “I sympathize with you and ask for 
nothing beyond your certain means, not a penny.” He 
now cleverly relieved the tension by a swift switch of 
topics. “We must at all times make allowances for the 
growing family—and how old is that little man, Matty?” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


89 


pointing to the dirtiest of the youngsters going forward 
involuntarily with the toilet hint of "his mother by suck¬ 
ing the dirt off his fingers. Mike and Larry roared in 
unsympathetic glee. 

“How old is he Father? Why, thin ast him something 
aisy” cried Milke, “Ast him how far it is t’th’nearest fixed 
star’r—or who sthruck Billy Patterson” which ironical 
reference to the helplessness of the author of their being 
struck Mike and Larry as being furiously funny, while 
the hapless cobbler flushed and coughed in embarrass¬ 
ment. “Ast him how old his childer are—be raisonable 
Father O’Connor!” 

“Why” broke in Mrs. Gibbons to cover the confused 
hesitancy of him called by courtesy her lord and master, 
“This lad is five years, six months and a week old, Patrick 
Joseph” with a savage rap on the poll that made him see 
stars, and intended as a hint to make a bow, which he 
would have done had the blur in his eyes permitted him 
to see to whom to bow, “And this gir’rl is three years, 
*wo months and five days old” with another bitter re¬ 
minder of her manners, “Marry Ellen—an’ we have two 
in school, John Michael and Margaret Catherine, an’ Ed¬ 
ward William an’ Thomas Aloysious in th’ Mill” said 
invoice being rapidly and breathlessly enunciated to the 
accompaniment of a baleful glare for the tormentors. 

“Ah” with native appreciation of the worth of her off¬ 
spring, “you’ll soon have a houseful of help, God bless 
and spare them to you” he prayed—which fervent wish 
might have been construed into a hint of the payment of 
favors conferred by a substantial reminder of the source. 
This subtle flattery of her offspring determined her at 
last. 

“I was thinkin’ ” with a very slight , scarcely notice¬ 
able slant of the eye in the direction of her husband, “we 
might go down f’r twinty-five dollars, mightn’t we?” but 
at that precise moment (too precise in fact not to create 
the suspicion that it was done purposely and with malice 
aforethought) the busy little man poured himself a bumper 
of pegs and left her to wait, if she chose, with what¬ 
ever patience she possessed, his acquiescence, thereby leav¬ 
ing the question open to eternal debate as to whether he 



90 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

had shared her generosity or contributed to her reckless¬ 
ness. 

“Bully, thank you both” and the name and amount be¬ 
ing jotted down he turned to Mike with pencil poised. 
“And now Michael?” which gentle reference to the last 
to come across could not but be productive of results; 
he set his name down for twenty like a man and the young 
priest, after a glance at his watch and out at the murk 
of fog and rain, decided that he would call it a day; 
with a grateful sigh he stretched his damp limbs to the 
blaze to enjoy a little gossip before trudging his way to 
the place he called home. 

Oh the pathetic vision of the priest forced to beg from 
door to door for the wherewithal to put a roof over the 
abiding place of Him who again (as at Bethlehem) sought 
a shelter that He might enter the house of man himself! 
The rebuffs, the scorn that he sought to assuage with 
the whisper that it was not the asker but the service that 
was insulted; the homes wherein the spirit was strong, 
but the physical means pitifully lacking. It was not the 
poverty of utter lack of employment, for the mills (on 
which most of his people depended) were running full 
blast, but it was the closeness to want where they per¬ 
petually strayed that faced him on every expedition. There 
was a wage that, carefully garnered, far more carefully 
than these people had been trained to garner, still barely 
sufficed to support in simple necessaries (to say nothing 
of luxuries) a small family—when it increased with its 
increased toll of sickness and death God alone could tell 
how they existed. That they might economize by listen¬ 
ing to the well meant hints of their well fed superiors, 
is perhaps true but that those same well fed superiors 
might divide a portion of that excess of means accumulated 
by the hard work of the uncomplaining poor never seemed 
to occur to them. That the stock holder might need a 
yacht, a country house, a horse, an expensive wife— 
seemed all perfectly logical; that a mill worker with a 
fresh babe in the house might need more wages to bring 
it up was preposterous. Unheard of indeed, what are 
these people coming to? the world asked and then stood 
back in blank amazement when the people told them in 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


91 


plain terms what they were coming to—and swiftly at 

that. 

Yet through it all they were practically uncomplaining. 
The scene just pictured might well be copied for all. The 
cobbler’s wife with her air of unconcern might have told 
of the winter with a month of croup, a month of rheuma¬ 
tism, a contribution to a consumptive’s family during 
sickness, and a donation to help bury her later—but she 
didn’t; she took it as the dispensation of the Almighty 
precisely as she took the presence of another mouth at 
the family board. They had come into this world un¬ 
bidden and they were going out of it uncomplainingly 
(bleak philosophy it may he) but sufficient for the humble 
and old fashioned believer in the mercy and bounty of a 
just God. 

“Did ye see Jacky Hughes?*’ Mike asked; Father O'Con¬ 
nor laughed. 

“That and no more—hasn’t done a lick of work all 
winter so he says; what’s the matter with that chap, Mike, 
lazy?” 

“Lazy enough t’be tlT prisidint of a checker club,” 
dryly. 

“I guess I just missed Tim Flaherty and Tom Mannion.” 
Mike knocked the ashes from his pipe. 

“Ye wasn’t lookin’ in th’right place f’r thim, father— 
ye’d probably find th’pair o’thim in Hogan’s paint shop 
swapping ailments. Whin I lef’ thim th’ scoor stud— 
Tim, wan rheumatism, an’a sprained back; Tom, wan 
bunion, a stitch in his side an’ a r-runnin’ ear.” Larry 
and the priest winked, while Gilbert stuck a bit of wax 
in his mouth by mistake. 

“Well, has the cat got your tongue, Larry?” suddenly 
demanded the priest of the taciturn Coleman; he started 
as if bringing himself back to earth. 

“Me head’s full o’ what Fve seen this blessed afther- 
noon” he said as if to himself, with the eyes of a sleep 
walker. “A Coggeshall, a Coggeshall himself’—an’th’ 
last time I laid eyes on him he was a weeny little tad 
wid long curly hair, an’ him never knowing his poor 
mother—God rest her sowl—lay dyin’ widout a wor’rd to 
cheer her; oh God” he finished with a sigh. 


92 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“And did he know you were here?” 

“Why no, he was lukin’ f’r help an’ stumbled in on us, 
glory be t’God, what a wor-rld it is afther all solemnly, 
he leaned forward to the fire, his fine gentle features lit 
up by the ruddy glow while a soft, reminiscient light 
beamed in his kindly eye. He shook his head and sighed 
—it was beyond him. And then, in a setting that defied 
the artificial atmosphere of the dramatic stage, with the 
wild rain spattering its gloomy message against the black 
panes, with the cone of light throwing into erie shadow 
the most of the tiny shop, while within its charmed circle 
the four men clustered, Larry told for the first time in 
his life the tale of the pretty emigrant girl and her de¬ 
bauched husband. 

“And the baby?” Father O’Connor asked after the sound 
of Larry’s voice faded with the finish of his recital; he 
made a characteristic shrug of ignorance and negation. 

“In glory wid its mother I suppose” he sighed, “I niver 
heard tell of it from that day t’this.” Father O’Connor 
made a gesture of impatience and disgust. 

“Oh the pity of it, the pity of it!” he cried: “why 
won’t our young people harken?” he went on mournfully. 
“Why cannot they see that the marriage relation is more 
concerned with the future than the present? Who speaks 
in this evil day with the surety and certainty of the Church 
and yet whose voice is oftener ignored by her own? This 
trivial affection they conceive for each other withers and 
fades, often with the honeymoon, but the child, the ever¬ 
lasting pledge they give God of their good faith and hope 
in him, runs on forever. Poor, poor weak human na¬ 
ture” and with a dreary shake of the head he rose to 
leave, shouting his farewells into the kitchen, whence issued 
with the fragrant odors of the big black pot, the rattle 
of spoons and the clatter of crockery heralding the ap¬ 
proaching supper. 

It was now quite dusk, the premature dusk of early 
spring hastened by the sooty fog and mist, a welcome 
darkness however, as its coming offers the excuse to the 
weary housekeeper (penned in her four walls all day) 
to light the lamp and draw the snug curtains, shutting 
out the depressing gloom from which will come soon the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 93 

forms and voices of the ties that bind her to earth; cheer¬ 
ing in those few hours accorded the poor, released from 
the dread tread mill, permitted a short time for happy 
intercourse and the simple pleasures of their circum¬ 
scribed station of life. But who shall judge the depth of 
that joy? Who can measure the dimensions of the hap¬ 
piness crowded into the few moments of peace and for¬ 
getfulness? The blase theatregoer lolling out of his 
box viewing a scene that brings neither happiness nor 
interest? The bored social entertainer wearily praying 
for the hour his tiresome guests will leave? The un¬ 
happy sinner giving himself over to the longings for lust¬ 
ful pleasure? For what will the tired, drooping mother 
exchange the cry of her first born running in with a hug 
and kiss, or the gentle, fervent caress of him for whom 
she has sunk everything? Who can say? 

Thanking the good woman for the many and pressing 
invitations to remain and share the humble repast, Larry, 
Mike and Father O’Connor withdrew together. They 
paused a few moments on the narrow porch while the 
priest ran over the names of those he hoped to visit on 
the morrow and received minute instructions as to how 
to proceed to find the houses, after which they separated; 
Larry to his boarding house, to give warning of his in¬ 
tention to leave for the new service, Mike to his little 
home long enough to get a bite, after which he would 
hunt out the most likely game of “Forty Five”—of which 
he was a devotee—and Father O’Connor to pursue his 
way thoughtfully down the muddy, ill-lighted path that 
ran past the Mill, his mind alternately pursuing the train 
of thought suggested by the day’s experiences, and Larry’s 
strange story. Really, the pathetic recital affected him 
more than his bleak and drear task collecting. 

Coming to the Mill there loomed up with its myriad 
lights a new worry; he gazed in reflectively at the endless 
rows of toilers, as mistily revealed through the dirty panes, 
flitting like ghosts from point to point, he pictured to him¬ 
self the wan faces and dragging members painfully and 
listlessly moving about in the minutes that signalized the 
termination of the bitter eleven hours’ struggle—he shook 
his fist at the row on row of gleaming panes and the harsh 
hum of the vast machinery. 


94 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


There was trouble impending—he had a vague presenti¬ 
ment of it in the hints and black looks of the people with 
whom he came in contact; with the going of Mannix a 
sullen spirit had developed when they felt he had been 
sacrificed because of his championing of their cause. 
They were determined to resent it in some way—and what 
that meant the young priest (already overborne and de¬ 
pressed by the weight on his slender shoulders) could 
easily conjecture. Practically all his congregation 
trembled on the brink of financial annihilation all the 
time—with a sudden cessation of the meagre wages the 
Lord alone knew what the situation would bring forth. 

Nor was that all—he was drawn in to it by a personal 
consideration; the leading element in the insurrection 
was of course Irish, which meant Catholic, thus conferring 
on him the moral as well as the physical guidance of 
them in the event of the worst coming to the worst. He 
began to despair, it was too much for his youth and in¬ 
experience—he could not but at times bitterly deplore the 
exuberance of spirit that had prompted him to take up the 
burden of the sick pastor instead of passing it on to another 
older and hardier. Yet, and he uttered a short prayer in 
the thought, for what else did he receive the anointing 
oils? Were they the symbols of ease and uninterrupted 
social harmony? Could he refuse the Cross? 

Looking at Coggeshall from the point of view as shown 
by Larry, he could not but see in the advent of that 
peculiar aristocrat a near approach to a calamity for the 
operatives, as there was nothing less than an inimical 
show to the hopes of the men in being overseen by this 
hopeless overlord. He had absolutely no sympathy with 
these people, he could not have. That was yet the day 
when the fortunate owner of property and employer of 
labor never questioned the justice of feeling that labor 
was divinely ordained for his disposal; that there was 
nothing in common between them, once he paid the wage 
he deemed sufficient for the task imposed. It was the 
moment when labor was beginning to ask itself what the 
remedy. 

Father O’Connor knew that the hands would appeal to 
him first from any injustice wrought by the new super; 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


95 


while he could not in honor countenance anything savoring 
of open rebellion, leading to a lock out (even although 
the management abused every fleeting prerogative with 
which a freak of humanity had endowed them) yet he 
could not in justice prevent them from taking the measures 
their own minds and counsels framed as the one recourse 
from a life of injustice. The church, the school and now 
the mill—it is little wonder that the rest of the night 
was given over to dreams of a storm provoked by a 
harsh superior out of touch with the times and the souls; 
a man evidently chosen by reason of the splendid isola¬ 
tion afforded him in the stressful moments when press 
and pulpit (as well as the hands) began to bear harshly 
on his course. The images conjured by Larry rose and 
trod the Office—he was forced to lay it aside again and 
again to still the tumult in his brain; after finishing the 
psalms he fell into uneasy slumber by the fire too di¬ 
spirited to undress and retire. 


96 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER IX. 

In pursuance of his crafty design to place near him 
everyone likely to be of use in keeping tab on the hands 
Coggeshall made a place in his office for the clerk who 
had first greeted him, Bridget White, the sweetheart (ac¬ 
cording to the envenomed hint of the bitter Malachi) of 
Valentine Crosby to whom the superintendent had accord¬ 
ed a position of importance among the men that might 
or might not be warranted; nevertheless jt was worth 
chancing. He went even farther, not only in ingratiating 
himself with the clever little clerk by raising her wages 
five dollars in the month, but he virtually set her apart 
from the rest of the operatives—to whom the privilege of 
construing his action in any light they chose was cheer¬ 
fully yielded by the business-like super. 

The surprised and happy little assistant showed her 
fluttered, gratitude more by earnest attention to the new 
work with which he entrusted her than by simpering, 
empty phrases; nor did he lay the flattering unction to 
his soul that his action savored in the least degree of 
philanthropy, being sufficiently repaid in the reflection 
that it accomplished a two fold purpose—making it very 
difficult for her to be disloyal to him had she ever in¬ 
tended to be and elevating her to a more independent 
position than her mates; thereby rendering her more im¬ 
mune to the suggestion of comradeship when the break 
he confidently expected to bring about between her and 
them (to say nothing of Val) had been accomplished. 

He quietly set about cultivating an intimacy with her 
in the few slack moments the absorbing task of each 
afforded; he was rewarded by the very agreeable dis¬ 
covery that she was distinctly advanced beyond her class 
and environment, a keen reader, a shrewd thinker and rea- 
soner and best of all—a good listener. For make no mis¬ 
take, the Harvard honor man could talk when he chose— 
and despite the fact that his conversation verged on a 
frank discussion of those things that up to this time the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


97 


pure minded Bridget would have debated as serious enough 
to be advised upon in Confession she gradually found 
herself taking a different interest in them because of his 
clever presentation. It was the consideration of woman 
in another sphere than that to which the narrowed in¬ 
tellects of her circles had consigned her he chose to 
dilate upon. 

To this she had formerly yielded but a trifling atten¬ 
tion, but now that half formed thoughts resolved them¬ 
selves into tangible arguments on the lip of the brilliant 
Winthrop she began to ponder its possibilities soberly; 
moreover, it rather tickled her vanity and braced the old 
shrinking modesty to see that he considered her of suffi¬ 
cient consequence even to unburden his mind to her on the 
enthralling topics. 

“You see, Miss White,” he said one day reflectively as 
he chewed on his unlit cigar, “at your age one should 
ask herself seriously, ‘what is my ultimate tendency?’ ” 
She sifted the rows of paper as she pondered that obvious 
point and he patiently awaited her reply. 

“Why, my tendency is toward clerical work, I should 
say,” she laughed up at him finally. He reflected the 
ghost of a smile. 

“Oh, but this is not a destiny, it is not basic, it is a 
mere incident—you could go through life in this occupation 
and yet fulfill the proper end while doing it—do you 
grasp my meaning?” She wrinkled her brows in puzzled 
thought. “Unlike a man your career varies when you 
choose another”—she blushed at his sly look—“and more 
intimate relationship as regards your fellows.” She was 
too embarrassed for a moment to venture a reply to that. 

“You refer to marriage?” she asked in innocent wonder 
in a moment and with a direct simplicity that warmed 
his heart toward her despite his callous indifference to 
the emotions of others. 

“What else?” with a soft laugh and an easy manner in¬ 
tended to convey the impression of having uttered a pass¬ 
ing casual thought. “But I daresay you have no intention 
of sinking your personality in such a matter of fact rela¬ 
tionship, have you?” with what must be construed as a 


93 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


challenge in tone and method of delivery. She didn’t re¬ 
flect long over that. 

“Oh, as to that,” with a pretty toss of her head and 
movement of the slender shoulder that even this connois¬ 
seur in femininity was forced to admit was devilish al¬ 
luring, “I am only a woman, with all a woman’s tastes 
and inclinations,” in feeble deprecation. He rocked back 
in his chair and looking out at the scurrying, filmy clouds 
borne on the March gale, shook his head gravely. 

“To a certain extent we must admit that, of course, Miss 
White—but the very fact of your superior education 
implies a distaste in some degree for the manifest destiny 
of the rest of your people,” all of which delivered in a 
way that could not but flatter the simple heart of the won¬ 
dering girl. It was the first time anything approximating 
this had been broached to her—it sounded like some of the 
books and magazines she read out of the town library. 
“Voluntarily eradicating yourself in this hearth and home 
nonentity, this slavish bearing and rearing of children, 
this colorless existence as a poor man’s wife—why your 
existence to this point gives the lie to the possibility.” 
Poor little Bridget, already her conscience began to suffer 
twinges as she realized she could not so much as listen 
to this argument for it was beginning to present its allure¬ 
ment with each sentence. She caught herself picturing the 
life at which he suavely hinted—and for the first time dwell¬ 
ing on its repellant side. 

She could not but admit to herself that the most promis¬ 
ing of her intimates rapidly lost their identity in the shadow 
of the more forceful mate even though he were not fitted 
either by nature or training to be the dictator—mere cus¬ 
tom and usage counted against them; she pictured the ease 
with which they degenerated into inert, groping machines 
set in motion at the initiative of others from sun to sun. 
Aided and guided by his specious form of reasoning she 
perceived for the first time that her associates simply 
occupied a rut, deep and inescapable, from the cradle 
to the grave. Rather awed at the harsh prospect she nat¬ 
urally gave herself over to reasoning a way out of a situa¬ 
tion that while not yet presented to her, impended, were 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 99 

she to believe the testimony of the sudden dark fancies 
morbidly conjured. She looked up timidly and somewhat 
fearfully at the superior being capable of starting such 
a disquieting train of conjecture. 

I I guess I realized it all the time,” into his quizzical, 
cynical face. “But I rather hated to acknowledge it.” 

Precisely,’ he agreed, “and I am free to say I will be 
the most surprised if you don’t comprehend the career 
opening before you, Miss White.” He permitted himself 
a studied pause as he saw the new light dawning in her 
innocent eyes. %w Of course,” he cautioned, as if detecting 
something there presaging too great an enthusiasm, “I 
don’t advise severing all the old, absorbing connections 
at once, rather cling to them the better to detect the con¬ 
trast in the old thought and the new. It won’t take much 
perspicacity nor a long time to show your old friends 
that between them and you there has come a chasm that 
can only be bridged at the loss of some self respect on 
your part—in fine, don't lower yourself .” Poor, innocent 
little Bridget. 

The seed fell on good ground. Up to this time the re¬ 
lationship between her and Val had been of the perfunc¬ 
tory kind as compared with the affairs as conducted in 
their set—to hold him in check would be an easy task and 
of course Mr. Coggeshall had no means of knowing 
that the only tie that linked Bridget to her surroundings 
was her intimacy with the broad shouldered, athletic 
Crosby. In the social scale of mill workers, weighed to the 
point where other boys held off to give Val a chance if 
he craved it, and girl chums didn’t insist on her company 
if he appeared to claim it—as a matter of fact the love 
part was conjured in the fervid imaginations of their 
friends rather than in sober fact and deed. Yet she knew 
that his declaration might come at any moment while it 
might be delayed for months. 

As it was she had not bothered to analyze her feelings, 
secure in the reflection that if a fellow with greater at¬ 
tractions sought her she might still fancy herself heart 
free and the “shaking” of poor Val would occasion no 
animadversions in their crowd. 


100 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


So it was she began to congratulate herself on the dis¬ 
interested (for so she deemed it) advice of one so well 
calculated to discriminate in her affairs and capable of 
proffering sage counsel; Val might still lurk in the dis¬ 
tance, a last resort if she again decided to change her 
mind—a remote possibility she assured herself. She began 
to cajole herself into the belief that everything pointed to 
the certain fact that she had not been predestined to be¬ 
come the wife of a poor man and thus merely change the 
form of her drudgery; the very fact that she had chosen 
self denial to attain a higher education while all around 
her the girls went at tender ages into the mill for the 
extra dollars to squander on their simple notions of lux¬ 
ury was proof positive that she was of a different mold— 
and if all that needed corroboration, was it not to be fur¬ 
nished in her singling out by the great, the gifted, the 
aristocratic superintendent? Poor beguiled Bridget! 

Now Coggeshall began to bring her books to peruse, 
not the light, giddy love stories that gladden the hearts of 
the bulk of the maidens, but the prosaic, philosophical ex¬ 
pounding of some individual who, while dazzling (and puz¬ 
zling) his reader seemed to set himself in the seventh 
heaven of satisfaction in his easy and certain (to him) 
elucidation of the griefs of mankind. The stuff rather 
poured down on her half trained intellect in a Niagara 
cataract of word and symbol and not being enabled to 
appeal to any of her associates for light—they would 
have thought her daft had she done so—she was forced, 
precisely as the wily Coggeshall had planned, to come to 
him for an explanation—which he rendered after his own 
fashion. 

The big whistle had blown its long, hoarse blast one 
evening and troops of men, women and children clattered 
over the wooden walk and rattled through the office exit; 
Val, his coat negligently thrown over his thick, ball 
pitcher like shoulder, sauntered easily along in the wake of 
the throng knowing that Bridget always was the last to 
leave. Even if she tried to tell herself that their intimacy 
was of such a nature as to mean nothing serious to her 
there never was an occasion when he lingered confidently 


< < < 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 101 

down the walk in plain view from her seat in the office 
that her heart did not beat a trifle faster and a peculiarly 
gratified emotion sweep her simple soul—neither Cogges- 
hall nor any of his turgid philosophers could annihilate 
the sex instinct; it was a possible mate—Nature was not 
to be denied. 

She hesitated in shy coquetry about her desk as he 
halted awkwardly by the door, for no matter how secure a 
man may deem himself in a woman’s affections there is 
ever a timidity and gaucherie in her immediate presence 
that sits obviously and heavily upon him; with all a 
woman’s instinct she was aware of it and if the sodden 
truth must be acknowledged for a moment lost sight of 
the recent cult—flushing prettily both in modesty of her 
bold thoughts and embarrassment for the impending 
struggle. 

“About ready, Bridgie?” he asked with about as much 
casualty and nonchalance as a boy exhibits in the presence 
of the Sunday School tree at Christmas. 

“Right up to snuff,” she laughted, and slipping on the 
jaunty little hat over the bewildering raven tresses she 
followed him out into the air of a quivering spring evening, 
finally suggestive of summer torridity and lassitude, un¬ 
relieved by the picture of the burning sun setting in a 
yellow haze. 

“Where y’ goin’ Friday night?” as they set themselves 
homeward. 

“No place in particular.” Then after a short silence 
that she didn’t like, “Why?” 

“I thought you’d like t’ go t’ th’ Firemen’s 
Ball,” overexerting himself to create the impression in 
his voice that he had not been studying and rehearsing just 
this situation for a month—calculated to assure her that 
he didnt care very much how she decided. But his smug 
appearance was shattered as in a flash she recognized the 
opportunity to put into practice that show of self ab¬ 
negation she had been fostering ever since the debates with 
Coggeshall had begun to take hold. 

“I guess I don’t care to go, Val,” she admitted finally, 
softly, tenderly, as if aught could assuage the pain of 


102 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the refusal; he came to a dead stop in the walk, such was 
his amazement and consternation, while his fine face 
changed with lightning-like rapidity from its beaming 
hue. 

“Oh, you get out, Bridgie,” in incredulous scorn “it’s 
the last o’ th’ season, invitation affair, you know, they 
don’t have t’ ask everybody ” in sly insinuation of the 
honor he sought to confer by the invitation, but she reso¬ 
lutely checked his flow of glittering inducements—although 
her heart was pounding and her brain was aflame-—it was 
the dance of their community rather niggardly in affairs 
of hoi polloi. 

“I’ve changed my mind about all those things, Val,” 
she declared firmly. 

“How’s that come?” he demanded sharply, as if it were 
his privilege as he consented to resume the leisurely walk 
again. 

“I—I—I’m beginning to think—those things are not in 
my line, Val, I don’t get the pleasure out of them that I 
might, ’ lamely, “I don’t care for that sort of amusement 
any longer.” Val whistled a shrill whistle of astonished 
disbelief. 

“What’s eatin yer now, Bridgie?” 

“Maybe you wouldn’t understand if I were to tell you, 
Val,” in obvious distress, “so let’s drop it,” she pleaded; 
that got under his collar and after a sulky silence that 
premised an outbreak he did talk angrily. 

“What’s so thick about my head I can’t get your guff 
through it, Miss White?” he demanded with acid em¬ 
phasis; alarmed at the certain signs of a tempest of Celtic 
pride she sought to defend by a pretense of anger herself— 
although her gentle heart chided her for the cruel de¬ 
ception. 

“Well, I guess I don’t have to explain, do I?” tartly and 
quite out of her ordinary course—and that was the spark 
that exploded the mine—Mr. Crosby being somewhat of 
an Irishman himself. 

“H’m, got a crust since the new super took yer inter his 
office, aint yer?” he sneered nastily—and there was too 
much justice in it to permit her to defend herself. “That 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 103 

raise kinder swelled yer head, didn't it?” he raved, now 
pale with anger. T guess none of us cheap Irish c’n dare 
talk t th super’s pet, hey?’ he foamed, stumbling blindly 
along in his rage. She ought to ignore him with crush¬ 
ing carelessness. 

I don t have to take that kind of talk from you or 
anybody else, Mr. Crosby,” with chilling mocking of his 
formality; he threw a sinewy detaining arm before her. 

“No—no one’s got a right t’ put yer onter y’self?” he 
grated, losing all semblance of control in his fury. “But 
I m here t tell anyway, Bridgie, that if that cod fish aris¬ 
tocrat is usin’ yer t’ put it over yer friends in th’ Mill I’ll— 
I’ll—put a head on him—an’ yer c’n tell him I said so— 
d’yer twig that?” in choking accents. In a flash the per¬ 
plexed Bridget saw whither she was drifting. This was a 
plain intimation that her friends suspected that Cogge- 
shall’s attentions were a snare and delusion to draw her 
away from her allegiance to the crowd to which she be¬ 
longed—an unforgivable crime in that community. But 
her’s was an alert, fertile brain and while the outraged 
Val was floundering about seeking words to further con¬ 
demn and put a particularly fine finish on the rumpus, 
she decided on a change of base, for the present at least. 

“Oh, you big goose,” she laughed up at him and at the 
same time laid a very soothing little hand on his arm with 
a light in her eyes that disarmed the unsophisticated Crosby 
in a trice—the pained lines softened in his manly face 
while a shamed look overspread it at the recollection of his 
hasty, brutal accusation—little dreaming that the compunc¬ 
tion in his soul was as nothing to that which burned in 
hers. “There’s nothing at all the matter,” squeezing his 
arm significantly. “Except that I have started to reading 
more and different things of late and this running around 
to dances and parties while all very well don’t give me a 
chance.” A look akin to awe ran over his countenance 
at this elevated tone—he was studying her now in rapt 
admiration. “Mr. Coggeshall nor anyone else can take 
me away from my own—you believe that, don’t you?” wist¬ 
fully. Poor Val went over the ropes into the crowd at 
that—there was not a vestige of sullenness or disloyalty 


104 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


in the glowing eyes eating her up hungrily—besides which 
he began to realize that he was weakening himself by a 
foolish display that might be construed into jealousy. 

“Oh, all right,” he muttered, licking his dry lips and 
trying to imitate her easy nonchalance, “I’m sorry f’r 
what I said, Bridgie,—but when a man’s—when a fel¬ 
ler’s—” they were in the twilight shadow of a row of pine 
trees and she realized that she could not decently check 
the inevitable revelation provoked by the disturbing cir¬ 
cumstances. “When he’s gone on a girl—when he’s stuck 
on her proper—when she’s a proper star t’ him—” stum¬ 
bling on bashfully and happily at words that instead of 
throwing her into a fever were simply dazing and dis¬ 
tressing at this particular stage, “you know—” and the fat 
was in the fire. He had declared himself in the light of 
Fern Park Mill codes. Where Coggeshall’s class would 
have uttered soft things about the soul and mind and ven¬ 
tured the proposition that life without the beautiful 
charmer would be like a heaven without sun or stars— 
Val gave her to understand that he wanted her—that was 
all. Bridget turned toward her humble dwelling in heart 
sick pain. 

“All right, Val,” softly and noncommittally, “only don’t 
be such a touch and go” she could not forbear scolding. “It 
isn’t becoming,” and they parted for the night—he whistling 
with the merriment of a man who has won and settled 
the affair handily. He was making good money, had a 
neat sum in the bank, there was no visible impediment to the 
union after she had named the day—oh, Mr. Crosby was 
a very happy and self satisfied young man that spring 
evening that simply insisted on the display of the heated 
love of youth and whose tender, mellow airs blew the 
flame higher and higher; he whistled and sang all the 
time he soused his head in the tin basin and while it was 
muffled in the coarse roller towel as he was putting 
himself in trim for the meeting at the Rookery that evening. 

Bridget didn’t sing—the fierce ache in her heart choked 
melody; he had shown signs of jealousy and she, in crude 
weakness, had shown signs of weakness, when she promised 
herself she would be firm; yet although the delirious Val 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 105 

believed she had committed herself she told her heart she 
had not. There was coming an inevitable upsetting of 
precedent in their circles when she had steeled herself 
in stronger moments to disabuse his mind of his ascendancy 
in her affections. It embittered the night for her—ren¬ 
dered all the more miserable by the fact that there was 
no excuse for her misery—for she nearly loved the hand- 
young foreman. 

Nor was she successful in her attempts to conjure the 
bliss and advantages of a life of single freedom as painted 
by the clever Coggeshall; it was all in vain she sought 
to chide her soul for its loving yearning and strive to 
compensate it for the loss of such as Val—she knew that 
if all else failed to blast her existence the witnessing of 
his unearned distress would be sufficient to banish every 
happy thought from her head for the rest of her life. She 
simply could not lie to her soul. The seed her new friend 
planted was beginning to mature into a bitter crop, a crop 
as full of resentment for herself as pity for Val. She was 
unhappy because she refused to make herself happy— 
and the love instinct tugged and pulled cruelly. 

Supper not being ready when she arrived home she ran 
upstairs to the tiny room she shared with another sister; 
it was a mean little apartment, scantily furnished with a 
bed, a dresser—around the edge of the mirror on it being 
stuck the many reminders of good times with Val in the 
shape of dance programmes—a couple of chairs and a 
dingy carpet. The sloping sides made it hot now—it was 
chill in its wind swept aspect in winter, yet it had always 
been Home and in it she had started the first dreams of 
Val—the room rather spoke of him. A demure glance at 
herself in the glass, a few deft touches to the rebellious 
strands of heavy hair and she was ready to run down again. 
Once in the steaming kitchen she threw her loving arms 
about the thin, faded figure bending over the ghastly 
stove radiating its odorous heat, gave the lined face and 
hot lips a hearty kiss and picking up a checked apron 
pressed herself into willing service. 

“All right, Bridget dear” in a happy sigh and a wistful 
look of admiration for the first born, her pretty, affection- 


106 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


ate daughter—soon to leave the crude nest, she thought 
with a pang of mingled pride and sorrow, "just pour th’ 
water ever th’tea leaves—I dunno what’s keepin himsel 
th’night” “Himsel” being the head of the White house and 
never otherwise referred to. 

‘“I’ll bet a cookie he stopped inter Finnegan’s t’see about 
the’ union meetin’ t’night” put in a sharp faced lad back 
against the wall that he might the better get the light re¬ 
flected from the bracketed kerosene lamp behind him. 

“Oh, I suppose so” Bridget sighed with a fresh pang 
—the prospects of trouble due to an organization among 
the hands was beginning to loom up for her like the 
traditional banshee in some families. “Still, I wish he d 
waited till after supper, I’m hungry” with the zest of 
youth. 

“It’s goin’ t’be a knock down an’ drag out affair I’ll 
bet” he prophesied going back to his library book, “at 
th’ Rookery t’night— believe me”. 

“What’s th’ matter, Timmy dear” queried his mother 
anxiously as she looked up from her engrossing task of 
stirring the potatoes in their lake of hissing grease. 

“Huh?” lost again in his volume—“Why they’re goin’ 
t’strike” with the assurance of a callow youth. The plate 
Bridget was carrying clattered out of her nerveless hands 
on to the oil cloth table cover. 

“Where’d you learn so much, smarty?” she cried; he 
grinned back at her in an irritating manner. 

“That’s f’r me t’know an’ f’r you t’find out” thrusting 
out his tongue in derision—which brought swift and poetic 
justice in the shape of a smart rap of the fork handle on 
his head by his quick tempered mother. 

“Take that, ye brat” she cried, “An’ that ” said “that” 
being a series of cuffs that toppled him from the chair and 
continued after he sought safety in flight. “Th’likes o’ 
ye—talkin back t’yer betters” angrily. 

“Ah, cheese it” dancing across the floor and rubbing 
his tingling ears. “I guess we know even if she don’t know 
we do—who’s goin’ t’tip anything off t’an informer, hey?” 
and satisfied with this Parthian thrust he fled from the 
room in delight. Poor Bridget—it was an echo of Val’s 
sneer; her friends already mistrusted her because of the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 107 

partiality of the new super for her and God knew she had 
done nothing to warrant it. 

In a whirl of contending emotions she finished setting 
the table and gracing it with the few relishes and smoking 
dishes; then ‘’himself’, quiet, patient, subdued in manner 
as usual, ambled in finally and with the preface of a sign 
of the Cross for grace the humble meal was attacked. What 
it lacked in variety was overlooked in the wholesome 
appetites tackling it, a sauce being provided in the running 
fire of argument and raillery, mingled with the latest 
base ball news, on the part of the pert youngsters who 
were thus permitted the freedom denied them in th^j 
presence of “company”. 

One member of the happy, bright family alone preserved 
an unusual silence; the town was growing union mad, 
she was enabled to gather, and it only remained for Val to 
betray intentionally, or otherwise, the scene just enacted 
to gain for her the stigma of a “company hand,” than 
which no worse blot can be put on a toiler. And yet she 
could not play traitor to her employers; it would be a sin, 
loyalty was not only a deep rooted trait of her forbears but 
a regulation of her religion and she would just as soon 
have thought of putting her hands into the pay envelopes 
as to do aught savoring of dishonesty toward her employers 
in this sense. 


108 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER X. 

With no more delay than that entailed by the notifying 
his landlady of the change and the transferring of his few 
bachelor effects Larry Coleman launched himself on the 
Park House and was again enrolled under the banner of 
the house of Coggeshall. Really, it would be hard to tell 
which welcomed the alliance the more warmly—Cogge¬ 
shall, who beneath his reticent and bored manner that pre¬ 
cluded absolutely any manifestation of regard for those 
whom he arraigned under the sweeping indictment as “infer¬ 
iors,” rejoicing in the advent of one linking him with a past 
rather dimmer than that of most mortals—or the Irishman 
who again found himself in an atmosphere, that however 
repugnant it might be to the high flown individuals 
scorning mere service, was in raptures over a renewal of 
what seemed old acquaintanceship. For once the dignified 
Winthrop Coggeshall was forced to acknowledge to his 
inner consciousness that the steadily recurring traits were 
not all the inheritance of his Puritan ancestors — as a 
matter of fact he almost took the genial Larry to his bosom. 

An enthusiastic horseman, he was the proud possessor 
of three beautiful specimens of horse flesh, a bay that he 
drove mostly in the buckboard and at times tandem with 
a magnificient black in the village cart, and a Morgan 
mare with a tidy reputation for the hurdles that he used 
under the saddle. These installed in a nearby stable, 
became Larry’s particular charge, and having a good eye 
for horses himself, were put under his entire control. 
In addition he was supposed to look out for the incidental 
details of the establishment that could be handled without 
the interference of femininity—toward which the young 
master seemed to evince the same degree of studied aversion 
as the ascetic Larry himself. It was one of the many sub¬ 
jects on which there was a spontaneous and thrilling un¬ 
animity of opinion. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


109 


“And now, Larry” said Coggeshall the first night they 
were alone in his suite arranging the furniture and books, 
“Tell me something of myself—of my father —and my 
mother” the latter word softly, caressingly. Despite the 
rigid Puritan regime that had elevatd him there existed 
a substratum of affection for the race of his mother—Larry 
sensed it unerringly in his word and manner. 

“Well, sor” he responded, reaching high up that he 
might set a shelf clear of the brocade covered couch that 
was stretched beneath it, “your father was a gran’ man.” 
Coggeshall almost responded with one of his rare laughs. 

“So it was drilled into me by his mother—and she ought 
to know; yet how did he manage to exist after my respected 
grandfather pried him loose from his patrimony?” Larry 
—keeping his back to him—cocked first one judicial eye 
at the shelf and then the other—managing to preserve a 
discreet silence. “Oh come on with it, Larry—let’s know 
the worst” he insisted, rather sensing the nature and virtue 
of the hesitation, and liking the good fellow the more for it. 

“Why thin” said Larry noncommitally, reaching for 
another shelf, “they got th’house in Fort Hill Square—” 

“Rather a well polished bone wasnt it?” in dry irony; 
Larry pondered that a moment, he realized that the son 
must feel that it was intended as some sort of punishment. 

‘“TITgovernor didnt lave his car-rd in th, Square more 
than wanst a week” blandly; “howandever, ’t’twas a ruff 
over their heads at laste.” 

“Well—but they couldnt eat it nor wear it, could they?” 
meaningly. 

“Y’r mother—Lord ha’ mercy on her poor sowl—did 
lace work o’ some kin’ an’ seemed t’ get purty good money 
f’r it—my ‘twas she was the neat little body” in a burst of 
enthusiam. 

“Then she never went back—that is never took up—”in 
a husky voice as if dreading to hear what he craved to know 
—but the loyal Larry caught the drift and broke in warmly. 

“No sor—he’d a died afore he’d let her—on’y too well 
he knew what that meant.” Coggeshall resumed his sipping 
of the Cognac and sighed in relief. 

“Then she was—of course, Larry, she was—agonized 
but determined. 


110 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Oh, God in heaven knows she was as pure as th’driven 
snow” he protested with tears in his eyes—and the aris¬ 
tocrat felt a sudden glow of affection for a man who loved 
his unfortunate mother so long and well. 

“But she couldn’t support them—come now, Larry, out 
with it, how did they live?” relentlessly. Seeing which, 
and realizing now the utter uselessness of concealing any 
of the bleak history he related the tale as carefully as 
might be, striving to keep within the bounds of truth. 

“Man, but he was a gr’ran’ car-rd player!” he con¬ 
cluded. 

“Ah” and he gulped his torture down with his liquor. 

“He larnt it in his thravels in Europe.” 

“The ordinary run of sporting bucks had no chance with 
him I take it?” he sneered. 

“It hurt her cruel—she tolt me wanst” reflectively. 

“But—but, was he kind to her, Larry?” spurring him¬ 
self on to the inquisition; Larry coughed and again became 
very much absorbed in his toil. Then his line of vision 
crossed the accusing one of Winthrop. 

“Not as thoughtful as he might ha’ been—savin’y’r 
prisince” showing his disrelish for his role of devil’s ad¬ 
vocate in his distressed visage, “She used t’like t’c’m down 
int’th’kitchen wid us—there was an Irish gir-rl roomed 
there did bushelin’ at Macullar’s—an’ talk till twas time 
t’put you t’bed—an’ we kinder cheered her up.” Coggeshall 
turned on his heel and took up a feverish pacing of the 
room with his face assuming the hue of a thunder cloud 
as his imagination conjured the scene. His mother forced 
to the companionship of menials to seek the comfort her 
husband denied her—oh the torment of that cogitation! 

“But did she never resent it—did she never complain?” 
Larry flung protesting hands heavenward. 

“Name o’ God, sor—not a whisper—not a wor’rd that 
wasn’t praise o’him, she was that proud o’him ye’d think 
th’sun rose an’ set on th’back of his head. She’d pritind 
t’us he was away on important business an’ she’d stick 
her finger in yer eye he was th’grates’ bein’ iver throd 
shoe leather.” 

“But did he never show her any love or affection, Larry?” 
impatiently. Poor Larry grinned feebly. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


111 


“Oh, he was too polite, too much th’gintleman t’let on 
this that anything was amiss—t’hear him talk y’d think 
buther wouldnt melt in his mouth.” The son ground 
his teeth and his fingers clinched and unclinched in in¬ 
voluntary wrath. 

“And my grandparents—did they never—” 

“Never sor—they was never mintioned in my prisince 
more than wanst or twict—I heard y’r mother say wanst— 
‘Nehemiah, if t’will reconcile you an y’r parents, take 
thbye’ (manin’ you sor) ‘an’ go back t’thim—I’ll shift 
f’r mesel’.” The listener’s eyes gleamed savagely and 
he ground out a fierce oath. “An’ thin jus’ befure her 
time she felt she’d niver live t’see her baby—” then 
checked himself abruptly at the ghastly light that stole 
over Coggeshall’s face. 

“Her time — her baby? Larry—” chokingly, “what do 
you mean?’ Larry trembled as he clung to the ladder 
whence he was hanging pictures. 

“I beg y’r par-rdon, sor?” blankly. 

“Do I understand you there was another? ' he demanded 
in faint accents. Larry moistened his dry lips ere venturing 
a reply. 

“But were ye niver tolt sor ye had a brother?” He 
broke into a mirthless, bitter imitation of laughter. 

“I swear to you, Coleman, that outside the natural instinct 
I never even knew I had a mother.” Larry took out a blue 
polka dot handkerchief and wiped his nose and eyes 
fiercely—it was beyond him. 

“Why” resting his hands on his knees to peer down sor¬ 
rowfully at the dazed man, “she died bringin’ him inter 
th’wor-rl’ ” with a pathetic simplicity that swept his auditor 
off his feet. Coggeshall’s armful of books crashed to the 
floor and he sank limply into a chair while his eyes re¬ 
mained glued to the pitying features above him. He poured 
himself another stiff glass of Cognac and drained it in a 
breath. 

“And the baby?” he whispered in a tense whisper; 
Larry shook his head in doubt. 

“I cant rightly say, sor, but I’m under th’impression 
it must ha’ died—” Winthrop came closer to him and 
pleaded with voice and look. 


112 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“All right, Larry, let me have it, the whole cursed story 
—and dont spare him". Thus importuned and conscious 
that there was nothing to be gained by subterfuge or 
evasion he unrolled the whole sordid, piteous past. 

“An befure th’weeny one c’m th’docthors saw she cuddent 
live—grief an’ neglect—axin’ y’r pardon—don’ help such 
matthers, sor; I was there that night an’th’neighbor women 
ast me t’stay t’be o’ some help mayhap—though little 
enough a man c’n be at that time—shud things c’m t’ th’ 
wor-rst.” 

“He was not there then?” savagely; Larry shook his 
head sorrowfully. 

“Not at fir-st—or hadn’t been f’r two days—” Coggeshall 
interrupted with a bitter, heart rending groan. “He was 
capt’n of his c’mpany an’ all his time was tuk wid lamin’ 
his min—an’ th’ sogers in that day was greener nor th’ 
slopes o’ Glendalough.” He smiled faintly at the reflection 
of his own verdancy. “Well, t’make a long story short, 
just afther midnight they called me to’luk him up an’ a 
neighbor woman ran f’r th’priest, Father DeRoule o’ 
Saint James’—Lord ha’ mercy on his sowl—he married 
thim.” 

“You found him?” dully. 

“Yes sor” in sombre recollection. 

“Where?” in grim insistence. 

“In a gamblin’ hell—he’d been winnin’ all night but he 
dropped his car-rds whin I mintioned home. Whin we got 
there she was too far gone t’ recognize him—afther she 
passed away we tuk you t’yer grandmother’s. 

“And the baby” softly; Larry made a hopeless gesture. 

“A bye sor—th’women said it cuddnt live—he gave one 
o’thim th’bag o’ money he’d won at th’ table an’ charged 
her t’take care o’ the child an’ bury it if it died—he meant 
t’pay her whin he got back.” Coggeshall gave voice to 
another fierce expletive. 

“Threw his own offspring aside like a sick puppy!” he 
cried flushing and paling in his excess of emotion. 

“Oh, not as bad as that sor, he’d ha’ taken care of it if 
he lived, sor, he tolt me so th’day befure he was killed.” 
Even this generous defense of his own parent didn’t mollify 
the aroused man. 




FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


113 


“But did you never hear any more of it?” He wagged 
his head in sad negation. 

“I didn’t go back afther th’war ’til I wint back t’view 
th’ruins of the big fire—all th’ old livers in Fort Hill 
had been druv out an’ th’place was given over t’business 
entirely. You pass the spot where you was born goin’ 
down t’th’Narrer Guage Road deppo. An’ didn’t yer grand¬ 
mother never tell ye of th’ child, sor?” wistfully to the 
man lost in his bitter reflections. He started angrily. 

“Not a word Larry, not a word—until this very moment 
I have had no reason to believe other than that I was the 
last of my line.” 

“An’ as far as that unforchnit babe is concerned, sor, 
I think ye are.” 

It was a stunning shock; not only from the revelation 
that in his veins flowed the blood of that race that training 
and instinct had always suggested to be an inferior caste, 
but the reflection that the vagrant fancies allied to an un- 
Puritan irregularity of thought and inclination were the 
direct result of a virile heredity that refused to be effaced. 
At his feet lay the ruins of the Hero his grandmother had 
set upon its pedestal and before which she had offered 
incense morning, noon and night—and now he was—but 
the thought of what he was became insupportable and 
he rigidly stifled his cogitation—there had been shock 
enough for one night. But the unlettered Larry had 
wrapped himself about the very heart strings of the 
aristocrat that hour. 

He didnt say another word beyond giving an occasional 
direction as to the arrangement of the furnishings, dis¬ 
playing a marked taciturnity that the astute Irishman had 
come to recognize quickly as a predominant sign of his 
training—and learned to religiously respect. At times 
so abstracted was he that Larry found it difficult to believe 
that the garrulous, effervescent blood of the Celt really 
flowed in his veins. 

Larry made a skilful major domo, his clever and tactful 
management of the establishment of the new super swiftly 
elevating it to the summit of like establishments in the 
factory town. His turnouts were—to begin with—so far 


114 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


above and beyond the ordinary equipment to which the town 
was accustomed both by reason of novelty and price that 
their appearance on the street for many a day was a signal 
for the cessation of business until the equipage was out of 
sight. With every young sport he was an immense favorite 
w r ho soon made it the fashion to ape him, while she esteemed 
herself a lucky girl who shared the Coggeshall buckboard 
on its way to the town base ball game or the tennis court 
on Fairmount; fortunate indeed the young lady asked 
to canter with him through the magnificent drives curling 
and sweeping about the foot of the Blue Hills with the 
dainty Morgan capering and prancing by the side of her 
mount. 

Thanks to the prestige of the introduction afforded by 
the wealthy mill owner and his beautiful niece the select 
and private circles of w r hat measure of aristocracy the 
town afforded were thrown open to him unreservedly; 
society groveled at his feet much after the fashion of the 
proletariat clustered about the brilliant Mr. Allen. Not 
only was there the tangible charm due to wealth and person 
but that indefinable touch of the mystic and romantic 
conjured by the knowledge that he didnt have to work 
if he didn’t care to—which is a very soothing thought indeed 
—being entitled instead, by birth and ancestry, to a lead¬ 
ing place in the social circles of the exclusive Boston, 
despite which he had deliberately preferred the prosaic 
environment of the masses as a safety valve to his dynamic 
interior—fancy! 

But as Larry cheerfully and gleefuly related to his 
cronies in the cobbler shop, there was something sticking 
‘'in their craw” by reason of his irreligious, cynical pro¬ 
pensities. The first few Sundays he had accepted every 
invitation to attend divine services, visiting in rotation 
with a rigorous impartiality the Unitarian, Methodist, 
Presbyterian and Episcopalian churches—and seeming 
rather put out when the variety ended—but which safely 
accomplished, with the fatuous devotion to duty—pre¬ 
cisely as one drops a card at a newcomer’s residence, 
with the polite but silent hope that it will not be recipro¬ 
cated—he blithely side stepped further pressing calls to 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


115 


worship and lolled his Sundays in his apartment, going 
over his accounts, talking with Larry after his return 
from Mass or poring over the Herald and Globe, bliss¬ 
fully ignoring the deep noted and sharp calls of the clang¬ 
ing church bells. To the straight laced inhabitants he 
was incomprehensible and did they dare but put him on 
the social blacklist—as they did the humbler Catholics— 
they would gladly have punished him. But how are you 
going to thrash the man who holds the whip? 

As for the genial, easy going Larry himself—he too 
confessed a fly in his ointment; the same being the un¬ 
explained presence at irregular hours about the Park House 
of his ancient inveterate enemy, Malachi. With much the 
genial warmth in his looks essayed by the noble house dog 
viewing in savage askance the sneaking approach of the 
bedraggled, mangy street cur, he turned his blistering 
optics for a sullen survey of the crawling little messenger. 

“TIT top o’ th’ mor-rnin’t’ ye, Misther Coleman” bleated 
that worthy, noting with an access of joy the blighting 
effects of his approach as revealed in the black regards of 
Larry, who assuming on the instant the cheerful lines of 
a man who has bitten down on an ulcerated tooth, grunted 
a surly reply. 

“Mornin’ ” and continued his whacks on the rug he was 
dusting with a vigor which bespoke perhaps the joy it 
would afford him to have Malachi for the rug—Malachi’s 
enjoyment of his discomfiture increasing in the same pro¬ 
portion as Larry’s wrath. 

“An’ is Misther Coggeshall in —Misther Coleman?” he 
ran on in a tone reeking with insult because he knew that 
invoking the name of his employer made Larry assume an 
outward respect he was far from feeling; moreover, there 
was in the covert tone a suspicion of a resort to secrecy 
that grated hardest on the tender sensibilities of the re¬ 
tainer and which he proceeded to punish swiftly. 

“He is in—an’ where else shud he be?’ he bellowed in 
a testy voice that drew to the windows the various chamber 
maids who, thrusting their heads out, suspended the latest 
gossip long enough to pose in anticipation of a fight below. 

“Why thin thank ye kindly, Larry” with a suave 


116 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


unctuousness that made his fingers itch, “but was ye 
talkin’ t’me or some one up on Paul’s Bridge?” as a gentle 
chiding of his purposely heightened tone. Larry abruptly 
turned his back on the unwelcome guest and fell to whist¬ 
ling one of the tunes that he at all times affected—“Believe 
Me If All These Endearing Young Charms” and “Then 
You’ll Remember Me” —knowing only too well that his 
tormentor was grinning behind his back and the pert maids 
were giggling at the impromtu al fresco dramatics.. Just 
when matters were approaching a crisis Coggeshall ap¬ 
peared and comprehending by this time the depth of the 
entente sustained between his faithful man and the un- 
propitious messenger, poured a little oil on the waters. 

“All right, Larry” which he construed as a signal to 
depart—“did you wish to see me Clark?” drawing on his 
glove. Malachi screwed his ugly features into a contortion 
of secrecy and stealth as he whispered excitedly, “I jus’ 
larnt y’was goin’ down east” with labored straining at im¬ 
portance, “an I thought perhaps ye didn’t know there’s 
t’be a big meetin’ th’ night at th’Rookery,” and taking 
off his Kossuth slouch scratched his wiry hair. Coggeshall 
bit the end off his cigar, ran a match over the top of the 
hitching post, lit, threw the match away—and proceeded 
to draw on the other lemon tinted glove with a degree of 
painstaking interest that seemed to say that its accomplish¬ 
ment was the uppermost thought in his mind. 

“No” he said noncommittaly—leaving the abashed Ma¬ 
lachi to draw any conclusion he chose from the curt nega¬ 
tive; with many grimaces and motions of indecision (which 
in agony of spirit he knew Larry was taking in from his 
stand in the doorway of the stable) he sought to elicit fur¬ 
ther symptoms of interest or a sign of praise for his gratui¬ 
tous information accompanied by a hint at commission in 
the future—but as far as any sign of recognition he received 
from the placid Coggeshall he might just as well have been 
facing the statue of Liberty in the public square. Stroking 
his gloves again, clasping the buttons securely, he flicked 
the ashes from his cigar, called an order to the beaming 
Larry—and with no more notice of the discomfited in¬ 
former than if he were a worm on the tar walk, turned 
and swung off his mighty striding way. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


117 


Clearly, with crescendoing rapture, emanated from the 
stable the shrill notes, in a superb mezzo baritone, of 
Larry’s classic safety valve, the ever popular “Then YouTl 
Remember Me” rendered with a fine lyric effect whose sig¬ 
nificance was not lost on the baffled, crushed and wrathful 
Malachi, only too well aware that his arch enemy had 
scented his downfall and was not only glorying in it with 
an un-Christian sense of vengeance but reserving its spicy 
details for the delectation of Mike, the cobbler and the 
other lovers of true wit with whom he consorted; with 
much the air of a canine, with his tail clapped against his 
belly after a sound thrashing, he slunk from the lawn 
pursued up the street by Coleman’s paen of victory. 


118 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XI. 

The Rookery was that night—as Malachi had so del¬ 
icately if despicably warned the super—the center of an 
animated surge of toiling mill workers; Crosby by dint of 
much debate and overwhelming personal magnetism pre¬ 
vailed on the men to come together in a solid body and 
renouncing the senseless street corner babble and “belly 
aching” air in a dispassionate, reasonable manner their 
views of grievances and needs, where each might proffer 
his own opinion and listen to the honest one of another 
without danger of suicidal struggles. He was by un¬ 
iversal consent accorded the title of president, although 
as there had been no regular body formed he could really 
only be a presiding officer—but then anyone will do to 
take the brunt of every battle. 

Up the old stairs they clattered to the third floor of 
what had been in better days a teeming tenement to a room 
now used as a make shift gymnasium in which (to be 
told in whispers) more than one affair with bare knuckles 
had been pulled off by the fun loving Irish and English 
athletes; a few decrepit and ancient chairs lined the 
blank, smoke stained walls, these latter broken in many 
places in a way to reveal their lathed ribs, a few tottering 
tables and some paraphernalia, well worn for the most 
part, signalizing the sports they loved best. A punching 
bag, boxing gloves, vaulting horse, swinging rings, wrest¬ 
ling mat—all piled indiscriminately awaiting any pos¬ 
sible user. 

But if the men that streamed up those stairs that summer 
night were coarse, uncouth, unlettered and rude of speech 
they were upheld by souls and minds nurtured in the hot 
houses of rebellion by the untold generations that had 
preceeded them in the old country. They were not to be 
trifled with. If the Bourbon Craigie only could have 
surveyed them with that same shrewd, penetrating regard 
that characterized his organizing methods he might have 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 119 

paused in his contemptuous, scathing arraignment of their 
"‘ungrateful mutterings"” to ponder if after all these men 
were apt to quail when brought to bay. Which is so 
much for the judgment of a man who renounces the study 

of Man. 

There was in that throng one calculated to inspire atten¬ 
tion even in a more pretentious gathering; he was the 
occupant of a room on the second floor of the Rookery 
(to which he was heartily welcome as far as the majority 
of his fellows was concerned by reason of its being accused 
of being haunted) in which he slept and ate, rather on the 
order of a recluse in his youthful way, yet ever ready to 
mingle with the other toilers either in play or deliberation. 
Lance Fleetley was perhaps a trifle younger than Cogge- 
shall, with whom by the way he was shortly to measure 
mental strength, athletic and clear eyed, handsomer in a 
way than the rest of his fellows but with a face in which 
it were hard to determine at first glance whether it bore 
an air of discontent or measured retrospection, as it light¬ 
ened or darkened as if under the constant dominion of a 
secret working of the mind; he was at times studiously 
grave, at times riotously mirthful as anyone about him. 

Of his past or antecedents there was not even a genuine 
surmise available in the Mill, for he warded off any attempt 
at prying into the days preceding his abrupt advent in 
Fern Park with a curt switch of topic that warned even 
the crudest blunderer that revelations were not on the 
carpet: he was niggardly of words but when he did 
choose to speak it was with a preciseness that revealed 
his knowledge of the subject under consideration and a 
clearness of thought that stamped his mind as above the 
ordinary. Tonight, an inevitable corn cob in his mouth, 
frequently nodding in response to those who greeted him, 
he slipped up stairs with the jam in his silent way. 

And the ubiquitous Mike Allen was there, keenly 
observant and blandly suggestive with sugestions no one 
heeded, a never failing source of amusement for the un¬ 
regenerate youngsters whose conduct he bore with a phil¬ 
osophic patience engendered by the fact that he didn’t care 
whether they laughed at or with him—it was all one to 


120 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

Mike so that he he permitted to occupy the center of the 
stage—in which perhaps he unconsciously imitated many 
other historical fools. With a cessation of the straggling, 
Val looked at his silver case watch and noticing the 
coming of the hour set, rapped loudly on the table behind 
which he stood for order; hats came off, boxing gloves 
were cast aside, pipes stuffed in pockets, the laughter 
occasioned by Mike’s sitting on the floor when some 
facetious boy pulled the chair from behind him finally 
subsided, those unable to secure seats ranged themselves 
against the wall—and took home on their sleeves souvenirs 
of the occasion in the shape and color of the Kalsomine 
decoration. 

“As there are no regular records of th’ previous meeting” 
Val announced after the scuffling of feet and clearing of 
throats had subsided into a gentle rustle, “we will proceed 
at once t’listen t’th’ report of th’c’m’tee I appointed at 
th’last meetin’—is th’report ready, George? ’ looking 
down the smoke hazy room. A stockily built, ruddy 
faced Englishman, George Day, stood up awkwardly and 
fumbling in his inner coat pocket at length extracted 
therefrom a roll of greasy paper. 

“It is” with an instinctive, quick touch of the fore¬ 
finger to the forehead—as token of salute to the assembly; 
then in a tense, throbbing silence he leaned toward the 
kerosene lamp hanging on the wall over his head and in 
a husky, although not unpleasing voice, chanted the finding 
of the committee. 

“We, your committee, after due deliberation and study, 
beg leave to present to this honorable body—” which 
designation sounding flamboyant to more plainly speaking 
folk (especially the turbulent younger element) unused 
to the formal ways of deliberative bodies, tee-heed audibly 
until angrily hissed into order —“This honorable body ” 
George testily emphasized with a glare for the disturbers, 
“The following report signed by all — 

“We recommend that a committee be appointed to confer 
with the new superintendent of the mill to make the 
following demands:— 

“A raise of one cent in the hour to the spinners: a cent 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 121 

and a half to the weavers: two cents an hour to the sorters: 
a reduction of the hours in every department to ten a day: 
no boy under sixteen to be employed. Respectfully sub¬ 
mitted, George Day, Chairman, Patrick J. Kennedy, Evan 
Evans.” there was an indrawn hissed breath of astonish¬ 
ment sent through the assemblage as he concluded—no¬ 
thing quite so revolutionary had ever before been presented 
to a body of mill men in that town and they were still 
gazing stupidly at one another as George elbowed his way 
down the line to the secretary’s table from where he faced 
the audience to growl out:— 

‘’I move the adoption of the committee s report.” The 
motion was seconded in a flash and putting the question 
the report was thrown open to debate. 

And let it not be thought that from the nature of the 
assemblage there was excluded a flow of lively talk. 
Twenty fiery, collarless, sweating, enthusiastic, delirious, 
toilers seethed into a vortex of sound and babble of sug¬ 
gestion that caused the old Rookery to rock in applause 
greeting every telling point; Val, with the instinctive 
orderliness and sense of mastery of his race was right on 
the job, checking those not entitled to the floor and gain¬ 
ing a respectful hearing for the man who might not be 
expressing the sentiments of the body as a whole, keeping 
the debate flowing from one faction to another—as he 
well knew them—with an impartiality that kept the crowd 
in good spirits and made it preserve a strong semblance 
of order. Gradually the more hot headed simmered down 
and the slower thinkers began to have an inning, the 
entire debate melting eventually into a determination to 
fight. Fleetley was among the last to offer his opinion, 
not because he was studying what to say but conserving 
his intelligence until a better hearing might be accorded it, 
and as he took the floor an appreciation of his bearing 
and perspicacity was rendered in the sudden, tense silence 
that brooded over the hall. 

“I think” he said slowly and impressively, in the court¬ 
eous tone that needed no recollection of his mysterious, ad¬ 
vent and actions to gain him a respectful hearing, no matter 
what side he took, “we are making the very wisest move 


122 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


in appointing a committee to wait on the super—belling 
the cat as it were—as it is assuredly time for concerted 
action and if I am any judge of circumstance everything 
is ripe for an expression of opinion. I am not however 
in favor of making it in the nature of an ultimatum—” 

“What’s he mean?” in a guarded whisper around the 
hall from one to another. 

“That is” Lance went on with a ghost of a smilej, “I 
don’t believe in sticking our fists under his nose and daring 
him—nothing of that sort” which being understood pro¬ 
voked a howl of laughter—to Mike’s distress as he felt 
that the scholarly Fleetley was impinging. “I am in favor 
of laying our grievances before him for a fair decision.” 

“An’ what’s th’chance?” from across the hall in anxious 
tones; Fleetley shrugged his shoulders. 

“Everything depends on Coggeshall” and the easy way 
in which he made himself familiar with the dread name 
awed every critic in the certainty that here among them 
was one fitted indubitably by birth and training to cope 
even with the domineering head of the Craigie Mill. “If 
he is the up to date fellow I have sized him up to be I 
have no doubt of a favorable hearing—if, by instinct he 
is not of our way of thinking—” in the slight emphasizing 
pause Mike, after a tormenting silence, leaped into the sun. 

'‘A b ovo” he said grandly, with a magnificent glance 
about him, “which bein’ freely thranslated is as ye might 
say, ‘Fr’m th’tap o’ th’gong’ ”— 

“Aw cheese it” a score shouted and he subsided with a 
sage nod of the head. 

“Or has no desire to advance the interests of employers 
as well as those under him—” without a break in the flow 
of thought precisely as if the poor Mike had never ob¬ 
truded, “we must have him brought to a semblance of 
reason by the committee—then by ourselves,” with a 
meaning that hit the bull’s eye if one might judge by the 
roar of applause that greeted his words. 

“Craigie and Bunton and Prugh have always refused to 
receive a delegation” gently interposed an old gray beard 
drawing on his pipe. 

“But Coggeshall is of different calibre if I am any judge 
oi men. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 123 

Yet if we are mistaken in him?” rather anxiously from 
Val; the assemblage hung on Fleetley again as he pondered. 

I don t think we can be—entirely; yet there’s one thing 
I know he’ll reject almost before its proposed.” 

“What’s that?” 

The child age limit. Our world hasn’t advanced to the 
stage where we perceive that we only stunt maturity in 
forcing our youth—that is, that it is cheaper economically 
to spend money on the boys in school than to draw on 
their slender store house prematurely, that it is better to 
forego the few dollars wrung from youth than to jeopar¬ 
dize the brain and genius of age—it is putting our colts 
under harness too soon.” 

“But what am I to do” queried the gray beard with a 
flourish of his old pipe, “with my scarcely living wages 
if I cant make it up with my three boys? Their four dol¬ 
lars a week keeps me from the poor house.” Lance patient¬ 
ly awaited until the sympathetic buzz that occasioned sub¬ 
sided before venturing to reply. 

“Which is precisely the argument with which Coggeshall 
will confront the committee, dont you see?” which their 
blank faces showed they did. “You, Mr. Shea, stand at 
the very crisis of our civilization; behind you lies the age 
of injustice that has fostered this hellish system—before 
your offspring lies the newer freedom. You may be de¬ 
stined to be the victim who doesn’t live to see the fruits of 
your sowing. This generation is confronted with the 
alternative of accepting the daily sops thrown by the 
rulers of all corporations and continuing forever the in¬ 
iquitous thraldom or rejecting them flatly now and win¬ 
ning for all America the same measure of freedom Lincoln 
granted the blacks with his pen.” A long solemn silence 
ensued—not a man there but was capable of taking home 
that gracefully expressed sentiment. 

“But could you ask me to become the victim?” Shea de¬ 
manded in quivering accents; Lance turned that he might 
not be confronted by the accusing eyes of misery. 

“I shall now say something that will sound cold and 
harsh but rely on your faith in me to justify my words. 
It would be a thousand times better for your death bed 



124 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

Shea, to walk out to the poor house tomorrow and let your 
lads complete their schooling than to consider your few 
remaining hours by the fire side purchased by the shack- 
eled hands of your children. Your children, ornaments 
in an enlightened community, will be better than a marble 
monument to illuminate the sacrifice you have made.” 
The nerve racking silence following that incisive presen¬ 
tation of their case was finally broken by the irrepressible 
Mike. 

“ ‘Agrescil medendo ” he chirped into the solemn gloom, 
“which bein’ freely thranslated is as ye might say, ‘Th’- 
physics worse nor th’colic.’ ” 

“I think” Lance went on calmly cutting bits off his plug 
preparatory to filling his pipe again, “we will be granted 
shorter hours” which sentiment being apropos of the wish 
brought out a volley of cheers—as if it were already 
granted. 

“What do you recommend then?” queried George, “that 
the committee insist on?” 

“Shorter hours and increase all along the line.” 

“Had th’committee better present tffrest?” demanded 
Val; he nodded as he held the match to the pipe bowl with 
head cocked to one side to escape the noxious sulphur 
odors. 

“Most assuredly—ask for more than you expect to re¬ 
ceive; you may get something and you may get something 
you hadn’t considered ’ which sounding like good medicine 
was rapturously gulped down by the men. The motion to 
adopt the report of the committee being put and carried 
unanimously a motion was put and carried that the chair 
appoint a committee of three to wait on Coggeshall. Val 
turned an enquiring eye on Fleetley who comprehending 
telegraphed back his acquiescence—if the cat were to be 
belled he wouldn’t ask another to it while he stood idly 

by- 

“Then I appoint Fleetley, Day and Shea on th’committee” 
a shrewd appointment as they constituted the varying 
sentiments of the hands. Their instructions were to report 
back at the earliest opportunity and to hasten; that Val 
agreed to make the appointment with the super as well as 
accompany the men when it took place. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


125 


And now followed a happy go lucky discussion of the 
matter that would have been better avoided, for the men, 
foolishly aroused to a pitch of enthusiasm by a mere 
favorable reception of the report of the committee began 
to beguile themselves—despite former bleak failures—with 
the assurance that their grievances were as good as settled, 
engendering thereby a fulness of heart that provokes an 
ache when frustrated, as well as dark hints as to what 
would be done in the event of the failure of the committee. 
In short, revenge began to gain mastery in their thoughts 
in brooding on their wrongs, they became foolishly ugly 
and defiant in the power of numbers—than which there 
is nothing more destructive of a clear action in a crisis or 
puts an adversary at a greater disadvantage before a wily 
antagonist. Val and Fleetley reviewed that feature of the 
affair sorrowfully in the latter’s room after adjournment. 

“I dont want to strike” sighed Val as he paced the nar¬ 
row confines of the room and gazed blankly about at its 
meagre furnishings, few ornaments, few indications of 
luxuries but evidences of intellectual training in the row 
on row of books the very backs of which were repellant 
to Val as beyond his grammer school limitations. Lance, 
in a brown study, pulled on his black pipe. 

“Nor I—but that isn’t going to prevent our having one.” 
Crosby frowned and bit his lips at the bitter prospect. 

“What’s goin’t’happen?” precisely as if Lance could 
forsee the results of the meeting of the committee with the 
super. 

“Coggeshall’s going to juggle us—you can bet your 
bottom dollar on that; he knows precisely what the mill 
needs from us and he’ll concede it—even if he knows it 
only delays the inevitable break. But he won’t give a thing 
he imagines the men thought out themselves. He knows 
the Mannix tale—and he doesn’t need a prophet to translate 
the writing on the wall” and he sighed. Val was constrained 
to bend another searching glance at this mysterious man. 
He was with the men but not of them, that was obvious. 
He was willing to share their common danger at the risk of 
something not to be surmised even. There was now in his 
fine eyes a look of a man who saw within very clearly 



126 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

but hesitated to reveal the result of his search. There was a 
settled look of patient resignation that lit though it might 
be at times by the fires of fancy still sat awkwardly on one 
of his youth—in fine Val was rapidly reaching the con¬ 
clusion that he, of all the hands, might easily escape the 
trouble just ahead; why he didnt chose to do so was the 
problem. 

“Do you suppose he’ll find out much about this meetin’ 
or that he’ll care t’know?” He laughed lightly. 

“You didn’t see little Malachi sneaking away then like 
a boy going to sleep out at night?” Val paused and 
uttered an ejaculation of mingled rage and regret. 

“Good Lord, no” he groaned, “d’yer suppose that dirty 
little informer is hangin’ around—” 

“I’ll bet ten to one that the cur heard it all and is at this 
very moment on his way to Coggeshall to make his report.” 
Val paced the floor a time or two more and then hearing 
the curfew of the cotton mill bell turned to leave. 

“Well” he said grimly as he paused in the doorway, 
“We’re together at any rate and we’ll mighty soon know 
where we stand—” 

“Or fall” interpolated Lance with a laugh that showed 
he wasnt worrying about it and they bade each other good 
night. 

Val loitered home in a whirl of contending emotions; 
as foreman he had a pretty good thing in the Mill and it 
really should not have been his funeral; but he had come 
out of the ranks, all his friends and relatives were still 
there and despite the promptings and suggestions of selfish¬ 
ness he hadn’t the heart to fail them in the hour of their 
bitter need. Yet he realized absolutely that if a sacrifice 
were to be made to the pride of the new super, if an object 
lesson were deemed advisable, he would be selected, his 
would be the shining light to be doused in the moment of its 
greatest brilliancy. He hadn’t the slightest fear for himself 
—but thoughts of Bridget began to intrude which mingled 
with thoughts of that latest baffling, disturbing interview, 
persisted in making sinister all reflections on his own happi¬ 
ness comprised in a marriage and a home of his own. He 
confessed to a decided sensation of uneasiness. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


127 


Bridget, his pretty, vivacious little sweetheart, was 
certainly not the same since the coming of Coggeshall—he 
sensed it instinctively, not so much in jealousy as fear for 
her; her manner, her expressions, her very choice of 
words bespoke some subtle metamorphosis that grated on 
the sensibilities of a man who had never hitherto looked be¬ 
yond the smiles of his gracious mistress. He almost cursed 
himself for an ignorant fool. Surely there could be no¬ 
thing in common between the haughty, cynical, aloof 
superintendent of the Mill and the modest, mouse like 
clerk; he knew her too well to dream of the possibility 
of yielding to a sensation other than respect for her em¬ 
ployer; she even regarded a harmless street flirtation as a 
sin, so that a hint of immodesty was quite beyond the range 
of possibilities—no, clearly he need not worry himself on 
that score. 

But somehow he began to feel that in a clash between 
the owners and the operatives his sweetheart was doomed 
to an equivocal situation—one destined to compromise 
her with him or the office. Could he ask her to reveal 
the secrets that would aid the men—what would he think 
of her if she did or did not? She could not remain 
neutral—she must be either with the birds or the beasts; 
and poor, tormented Val caught himself wearying of the 
whole intolerable situation, not yet having arrived at the 
point where he could view with a complacent eye outer 
forces that threatened the serenity of his inner works. 
Her position combined with the sneaking presence of the 
dirty Malachi and his serpent’s tongue, complicated matters 
to such an extent that it was well toward morning ere he 
sank to the disturbed slumber filled with unhappy dreams. 



123 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XII. 

With an exterior admirably intended to convey the im¬ 
pression that a crisis in Mill affairs was as close to his 
thoughts and as worthy of attention as an insurrection in 
a Turkish harem, Winthrop Coggeshall strolled toward the 
Craigie mansion the evening of the meeting; Malachi’s 
hint had not—as that chagrined individual feared—fallen 
on metallic ears nor had the importance of the com¬ 
munication been lost sight of; but it suited his purpose 
best to feign a nonchalant contempt for the counsels or 
warnings of an inferior, the better to draw him along in 
stronger efforts to ingratiate himself and to make surer 
his defence of innocence of connivance in any plot should 
an investigation result from any untoward catastrophe. 
He knew quite well (as if present himself) that the wicked 
little Irishman would be there and that in due time he 
would receive a faithful account of all that transpired. 

Of late his feet strayed oftener, and not in indecision, 
in the direction of a being whom he firmly believed was 
to typify his ideals of the tender passion. Up to this point 
the wise Mr. Coggeshall had, together with other mani¬ 
festations of utter contempt for the gentler pursuits of 
his male associates, (as he supposed) implacably innured 
himself to the assaults of women. He despised all but the 
utilitarian. Marriages—births—deaths—deterring opera¬ 
tions in the even tenor of the way of genius stolidly pur¬ 
suing the aeons old groove existence to the grand climax. 

Almost in a flash Miss Colquhoun smashed this; the 
subtle merging of a friendship engendered by a business 
attitude at her home into a situation that at least predicated 
a surge of tender emotions had progressed to a dismaying 
length before the enthralled Winthrop realized the awful 
danger. And then he was beyond caring. So far his 
conception of love between the sexes had been a cave age 
theory that the woman permitted herself to be fascinated by 
the superior charm of the man and that at the proper 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


129 


moment—to be selected by the man—he was to declare 
himself and there was nothing left for her but to acquiesce. 
To the smug nihilist’s dismay and chagrin, it began to be 
borne in on him that the accomplished niece of the cactus 
exteriored Scotchman had inherited some of his adaman¬ 
tine views and rugged thought, making it a practical cer¬ 
tainty that she for one wasn’t wearing her heart on her 
sleeve. He frequently sought her company for the mutual 
pleasure and relaxation afforded in a circumscribed social 
community;it nettled him to note that the periods between 
and the length of his visits were a matter of total unconcern 
to her—his patent disappointment and thinly veiled 
chagrin at her coolness awakened no responsive sentiment 
tending to remorse therefor in her serene regards. At 
which point the egoist began to learn. 

It was a brooding, mellow evening in early summer; 
in deference to the old fashioned wishes of her uncle, 
Grace chose to remain during the heated term in their 
sumptuous home rather than to pack and compress in 
strange, uncomfortable fashionable resorts where wealth 
guyed wealth and snobbery ran rampant, with tuft hunting 
in ostentatious display of dirty, ill begotten affluence. 
Craigie, accompanied by a veritable thistle of a Scotch 
gardener, with a will as undaunted and stubborn as his own 
and a gardening instinct as rigid as his Presbyterianism, 
roved in an inspecting tour of the splendid grounds, 
volubly and hotly disputing every shrub and leaf and 
bloom with the perverse old crab at his side—yet smiling 
grimly to himself at every fresh instance of the horti¬ 
cultural superiority of the other. Grace, just through 
with sprinkling had set the hose to one side and out of 
earshot of the interminable dogmatism of the warriors 
was seated on a rustic bench, dreamily gazing out over 
the town steeped in the dying rays of the lurid sun, to 
Fairmount, and the lovely woods and hills that lay beyond. 

Smilingly she made room for Coggeshall as he sauntered 
up hat in hand; thankful even for that tiny shred of 
welcome, he sank gratefully beside her, striving to put 
into the movement an assurance of a kindly sentiment 
his soul warned him she did not feel. Her looks and 


130 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


gestures were far too casual to suit one flattering himself 
he was becoming a lover; she made quick response to his 
enquiring glance. 

“I was just wondering” she said, her eyes again roving, 
accompanied by a sweep of the hand, taking in all within 
reach of their vision, then permitting her elbow to come 
to the side of the bench and her chin to nestle in the 
hollow of her shapely hand in an attitude he found very 
alluring; her immense white Leghorn swung in the other 
hand. 

“Meaning—?” fanning himself languidly with his straw 
and not particularly caring as long as she permitted him 
an uninterrupted study of her ravishing profile. She 
didn't even take the trouble to look his way as she answered 
in thoughtful tones. 

“3 he struggle of these people below for the mere exist¬ 
ence we scorn”. He looked slightly amused. 

“But they enjoy life.” 

“How can they?” still looking away from him. 

“Oh,” he said with a slight sneer, “by a merciful dis¬ 
pensation of Divine Providence—or Dame Nature, take 
your choice. The conditions under which you would be 
annihilated perhaps are precisely the ones that keep 
these people alive—just as the puppy thrown in the 
water for the first time learns that he can swim where 
his master would drown.” He looked admiringly about 
the majestic sweep of Craigie grounds. “This was made 
for you—they couldn’t appreciate it.” She shook her 
head soberly, rather mystified all the time. It was the 
continuation of a previous controversy—an(d it rather 
bored him at a time he sought solace from its every day 
inspection. Rapt, he followed the slight inclinations and 
turns of her head as she drank in the inspiring beauty 
lit by the still fervid rays of the disappearing sun. 
Suddenly, she flashed on him a battery of very discon¬ 
certing eyes. 

“I don’t agree with you” she said warmly “this wasn’t 
made for us—they could appreciate it if it were theirs” 
at which he shrugged his total unconcern, whipping 
impatiently at the grasses with his cane. Any other 
woman, he thought bitterly, would be glad of the chance 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


131 


of surveying a lover arrayed as he was in all spotless 
summer finery and radiating an intelligent personality 
immeasurably beyond that afforded by the best circles 
of the mill town. Was this then the value of his unim¬ 
peachable lineage? Couldn’t the glorious Miss Colquhoun 
arouse to the pearl lying at her feet? 

Blissfully ignorant of the pathetic yearning masked 
behind the inscrutable features she turned with a soft 
sigh at which he wondered—but no, it was not for him—to 
survey the brilliant prospect. The summit directly west of 
them was slowly shrinking into its shadows as if regretting 
the loss of the orb whose earliest beams gladdened its 
face in the morning, at its feet the mirror like pond, fringed 
with immense lily pads, whose slowly released waters over 
the ugly dam furnished the power for the gaunt, stark 
cotton mill; blank window panes slowly relinquishing the 
ruby ray of the setting sun and settling into serried 
gloom, to be relieved later by the fitful flash of the 
watchman’s lantern as he tramped his hourly rounds. 

Farther, and to the south, roiled a gentle declivity that 
billowing up with a tree scarred surface, punctuated by 
factory and warehouse, then a sharp line of railroad, finally 
shot up boldly until it merged into the magnificence of the 
distant Blue Hills; tipped now with the caressing tinge 
of the down dropping sun, hovering tenderly in gentle good 
night over its ravishing heights. Two tiny streams sauntered 
through the emerald velvet meadows above the town, 
fretted eventually by bridge and spile, converging until 
they met in sullen distaste amidst the hideous mills from 
which they fled fumingly to the welcoming and unfettered 
sea awaiting them miles beyond. 

“It is merely the difference in our point of view” he 
pursued calmly. “You are sorry that these people—now 
that they are on earth—must inure themselves to a life 
of working torment simply to preserve that life—while I,” 
with a slight ironical curl of the lip, “profess to be more 
just in condoling with them for being here at all. On the 
whole I see no reason why they should submit tamely 
to it.” She turned on him now a look of bewildered lack 
of comprehension—which whatever her intent merely 


132 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


served, with her voice, to complete his enthralment. 

“■But their toil should not preclude a great measure of 
happiness—” he came in with a grimace intended to 
forestall any romantic confession of affection for them. 

“No, they shouldn’t settle themselves to partake of the 
meagre comforts doled out as a reward for daily toil” 
he said coldly. “Personally, it would not hurt me near 
so much to be situated as they are as to be conscious of 
the fact that others—such as your uncle and I in fact—who 
while deserving no more of nature, have its gifts squand¬ 
ered on us.” She laughed a trifle uneasily at that as one 
faced by a bit of wisdom that instinct warns is sophistry 
and a moment of undecided silence followed. 

“But we can’t all be fortunately rich—” 

“Conversely, we should not all be poor; to see just such a 
one as I over the many tricked by fortune is the one thing 
that would drive me to the verge of destroying the system 
or whatever it may be called—and by force if necessary.” 

“But if there were none to serve—who would be served?” 
He smiled in his bored manner at that. 

“Oh I realize very well that if no one were to prepare 
my meals and provide my attire I should have to do it 
myself—but rather than provide food and attire for an¬ 
other, probably not as deserving of it as, I despite the 
accident of birth—I should be spurred to annihilate the 
entire community—” 

‘“Oh you don’t mean—” in an awed whisper. 

“But I do” precisely and grimly, “mean that before I 
should consign my offspring to the same nasty fate meted 
out to me by a sordid world gone awry I would go into the 
Mill and laying a train of powder blow it and me into 
smithereens!” She rewarded him with a sceptical laugh. 

“Really” she said unemotionally, “you are almost 
amusing” and they laughed together—which being a rare 
performance was seized upon by the happy Coggeshall 
as a drowning man fastens on the wish that he had learned 
to swim. 

“Furthermore, you have never been these people—how 
are you to judge?” with as near impatience as he dared 
venture. She frankly returned his stare, not dreaming that 
he was endeavouring all the time to keep within her view, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


133 


finding the creamy softness of her ripened beauty, illum¬ 
inated by the appraising, dreamy eyes, an impulse to the 
surging blood akin to the effect of his favorite Cognac. 

"‘Why should I think that poor clothing, insufficient 
nourishing food, steady racking employment—under in¬ 
tolerable conditions too often—is more acceptable to 
them than it would be to me?” 

“I dont expect you to” he answered as steadily as might 
be under the impact of those glorious regards, “yet it is 
quite possible that if you were born to those conditions, 
if a good suit of clothes occasionally spelled luxuriance, 
if a good meal carried you on to the next, you might endure 
it all as hilariously as they do.” 

“But how can they endure it patiently?” flinging the 
big Leghorn to the grass nervously, “why can’t they 
hope to be lifted out of it eventually?” He made a cynical 
gesture, half mirth, half displeasure at the continuance of 
the sordid debate, and his face was a jarring note in the 
tune of the summer eve. 

“They do—believe me. Twenty four hours a day. 
They go to sleep dreaming freedom. They awake full of 
it, they bear it into the machinery with them and its rattle 
sings of it to them.” She shivered sorrowfully. 

“You are so fond of referring to generous dame nature—- 
how can they appreciate it in the moil of that heap of 
hovels, factories, crude—” 

“Bless you, they dont ” shortly; “it is one of the merci¬ 
ful dispensations of their station of life that the intangible 
is unattainable—it is only the boy or girl—” he thought 
swiftly of Bridget—“cursed with ambition that is unhappy. 
The soul—the soul mind you—is incessantly at the loom 
and spindle.” 

“I wonder”, sadly. 

“Better ask Mr. James” in sly irony, “he knows all 
about the formation of the world.” She shook her head 
and closed her eyes as if to blot out the disturbing spec¬ 
tacle. He knew—even if she didn’t—that was sheerest 
sophistry, that there was a determining supernatural force 
overriding all, but he could not afford to jeopardize his 
unbelief by avowing it—let her grope, he mused grimly 
within himself. 



134 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“But do you never feel—as I sometimes do—that I 
am usurping some one’s share of this glory of nature? 
He clipped savagely at the grass and frowned although 
he knew it was bad for his caste of features. 

“Yes—what good does it do?” in ill concealed curtness. 

“Are you never tempted by a desire to turn back your 
unlawful share?” she went on remorselessly. 

“Not to any appreciable extent ’ dryly. “If for instance 
I gave a portion to Larry Coleman I d have to get up in 
the morning and curry my nags wouldn’t I—while he sat 
around and discoursed on the beauties of socialism with 
the chamber maids?” with a tone and manner that forced 
a laugh, despite the gravity of the discussion. 

“Oh the harshness of it though” she sighed wearily at 
which he laid a firm, restraining hand on hers. 

“What’s the occasion of this futile dissection, Miss 
Colquhoun?” he demanded almost sharply. 

“The strike rumors” she confessed, “with its train of 
horrors. I see the poor folks daily, the bright, lively 
little girl swallowed up in the Mill for a pittance who looks 
forward to no other release than marriage—to share the 
pittance of another and the troubles—one wretched woe 
treading on the heels of others!” 

“Oh but the feminine mind wants no better exchange 
than matrimony” with a sly manner. 

“Because there is no other change for them ” impatiently. 

“And why should there be?” in well feigned astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Do you suppose” she protested, “they haven’t judg¬ 
ment enough to realize just what the responsibilities of 
marriage are when entered into in a spirit of escape from 
another evil?” He laughed softly at her eagerness. 

“Perhaps they cultivate a taste for it as we do—for 
olives” then perceiving that she was in no mood for his 
attempt at wit, he sought to flatter her choice. “Beside 
which you must remember that with them there is no great¬ 
er stigma than old maidenhood, you know” quietly. 

“Precisely strengthening my contention—they have no 
alternative offered.” 

“Well, I’m prepared to agree with you there—” at which 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


135 


moment, to his infinite relief there came a welcome in¬ 
terruption. 

“Now what’s the argument?” from Craigie who having 
received from his mentor about all he could stand in the 
way of surly contradicting and acid rebukes on his inex¬ 
pertness in horticulture, gladly sought the young people, 
so engrossed in the argument as to be unaware of his 
approach over the gravelled walk. Coggeshall arose and 
proffered his seat. 

“Miss Colquhoun has made an important if belated 
discovery” he said maliciously, “she has found out that 
some people have to work that others may live.” Her 
uncle turned on her reproachfully in the gathering gloom. 

“Grace, Grace lass, banish these foolish thoughts from 
your head! How often have I told you that my situation 
was far more unfortunate than e’er a one in Fern Park—yet 
was I well and happy.” 

“There you have it Miss Colquhoun” triumphantly. 

“He hasn’t expressed it fairly uncle” laying her young 
head against his shoulder with a movement infinitely 
pretty and endearing, when he fell patting it as fondly 
and as happily as would a mother, “I know the relations 
of society, but I protest against our pretty town being 
scarred—” 

“Tut, tut” with an impatient voice but a soft kiss. 

“Would you go back to that happy life, uncle?” mis¬ 
chievously. He snorted impatiently. 

“Would ye go back t’yer dirty linen after a bath?” 
testily; “It’s still a garment isnt it—yet could ye rest 
easy in it?” 

“If” broke in Coggeshall with more of his incisive 
business tone and manner than he had as yet essayed, 
“you are really desirous of hazarding your views, of 
putting your theories to a test as regards the real sensitive¬ 
ness of these people, if you wish to know their precise 
susceptibility to the little amenities of life, you can do so 
in the next few days.” He leaned as he spoke against a 
marble column, tufted by a cluster of fragrant flowers, 
and the Old Man was forced to lean forward to scan his 
face in the wan light. 


136 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Eh, Mr. Coggeshall?” sharply. 

“I’m strongly of the opinion that we are on the verge 
of—a strike!” Uncle and niece uttered a simultaneous 
startled exclamation. A strike—the first in the history of 
the Craigie Mills! 

“Ye seem t’take it as easily as cooled stirabout” Craigie 
snapped bitterly. 

“What would you have me do? Run to the public 
square and stand on my head?” pertly. “Ihe matter is 
to come to a head tonight and I can do nothing until the 
committee waits on me.” Craigie clucked angrily, then 
burst into a disagreeable laugh. 

“Oho, a committee indeed” with more of venom and 
rancor in his voice than the young super liked in one of 
his age and bearing. “A committee says Con—an’ will ye 
receive it Mister Coggeshall?” harshly. 

“Receive it?” in astonished tones that left no doubt as 
to what was behind. 

“Oh of course” Craigie burst out hurriedly,” the Board 
has left it all in your hands” as if a man of Coggeshall’s 
calibre were likely to forget that item. 

“And I positively await their coming impatiently” he 
cheered the chauvinist soul in his lightest air. At which 
Grace could not help admire—despite the recent dis¬ 
comforting debate—the calm, masterful manner of this 
untried dynamo. “My man Coleman tells me the only way 
in war to get your enemy’s range is to draw his fire.”But 
his levity was falling on deaf ears as far as the Old Man was 
concerned; there was an overturning of tradition, a dissipat¬ 
ing of ideals. The very fact of listening to a delegation 
of workers was a concession so at variance with the policy 
of the Mill that it had aroused bitterest thoughts in the 
hard breast of the head of the corporation. It was a 
dangerous innovation. Being dictated to by a whole Mill 
—rendering impossible the good old method of dealing 
with insubordination by taking individual by individual 
and handing him his dinner pail and hat and bidding 
him close the door on the outside, even if he went to the 
dogs and his family to the poor house—was a little short of 
countenancing heresy—and the old Blue Stocking would 
just as soon have renounced infant damnation as pro- 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


137 


letariat salvation. That piece meal, summary dismissal 
always had had in the past a remarkably deterrent effect 
on grumblers and agitators among the hands—to abandon 
it meant the communizing of the Craigie Mill. Is it any 
wonder the Old Man’s chin fell on his breast in gloomy 
misgiving? 

“Th’hoose wi’ ane gude head prospers a’right—th’hoose 
wi’twa, not sa weel—while the hoose wi’all heads—gangs 
fair t’destruction” he chanted mournfully. 

“Be that as it may” snapped Coggeshall with unwonted 
asperity, “I’m here to tell you there’s one head in the 
Craigie Mill, and unless the Board changes its mind— 
it is /!” with a burst that aroused even the Old Man. The 
latter with a murmur about the night air, arose heavily 
and leaning on the arm of his niece, shuffled toward the 
house; Grace rewarded the super for his encouragement 
with a look that made him quiver—there was some hope 
after all, he flattered himself as he strode along in their 
wake. 

“I know just what they want” he went on as they 
proceeded to the house, “and I know just what they will 
get” so decidedly that the Old Man was forced to turn an 
admiring glance his way under the light streaming out on 
to the vast piazza, to which Grace added a smile—which 
the ardent suitor failed to translate. “As far as the com¬ 
mittee is concerned” as they stepped inside, “they might 
just as well save their time and labor for what comes to 
them will not come to them because of coercion,” and now 
he was unable to see her face at all as she stepped into the 
immense drawing room. 

Having a little better excuse than usual that night he 
stayed later than at any other time, going over with the 
two his plans for the campaign, doing it so clearly and 
handily that even the Old Man was forced after a time to 
forget his misgiving at the mention of the Committee and 
finally to grudgingly admit that perhaps, after all, times 
had changed since he left Scotland—which was a mighty 
concession on his part. It was something to admit that 
taking one’s head out of the sand might reveal that the 
rest of the body had been in full view all the time. And 
Gra^e uttered not another word. 


138 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

Rather, in the heat of the discussion, she arose with a 
tired manner and seating herself at the piano ran over 
softly the simple old airs, homely little things that some¬ 
how conjured for the distracted super scenes in mean 
apartments—why did she persist in this gross manifest¬ 
ation of regard for the submerged? Was it not enough 
that he rubbed shoulders with it every day without being 
tormented with it in his festal moments? 

He departed that night, his brain a riot—not of the 
conflict with the hands; he had that affair properly settled, 
pigeonholed and marked—but of his relations with the 
charming Grace Colquhoun. At intervals he laughed to 
himself at her futile effort to reconcile the ages old prob¬ 
lems of society, then again he fell into gloomy introspection 
of Mill affairs; he didnt like that inscrutable silence after 
the return to the house—he began to regret his rashness 
in laying bare his plan of procedure to her—he recalled 
with vague uneasiness how signally he had failed in every 
bold or subtle effort to draw her into the discussion. She 
had affected an air of discreet reserve—or was it dis¬ 
pleasure?—even although she strove to be scrupulously 
polite to her uncle’s guest. There was nothing in the tones 
of her singing voice or chaste profile to betray her to her 
yearning suitor. 

Once he cursed himself long and earnestly in the midst 
of the quiet walk homewards; cursed his imbecility at being 
so easily disturbed; cursed his fancied impotency in the 
face of emergency; cursed his situation—being in love— 
for allowing his pride to be thus terribly wounded; cursed 
everything because he was the indisputable victim of the 
affair rather than the easy victor he dreamed he would be. 
. In the very midst of his torturing reflections he gained 
the shaded walk by the side entrance of the apartments— 
then started slightly as he reached the first step of the 
porch at seeing a slight, crooked figure emerge from the 
gloom of the bordering trees beyond a pillar; he quickly 
made it out to be Malachi. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


139 


CHAPTER XIII 

He was fairly aquiver with exitement, voice and gesture 
adding to the usual signs indicative of the temperament 
peculiar to his race, yet striving with a comical assumption 
of dignity to invest his performance with some slight 
vestige of decency and trace of propriety. Coggeshall 
backed across the tar walk to the border of the trees and 
throwing his cigar away that its glow might not attract 
any chance passer awaited in taciturn and irritating calm 
the revelation. 

“Well sor” panted Malachi, choked not only with an 
asthmatic affection but the realization of the indignity 
done him in not being dragged up to the super’s room in 
high secrecy, and having conferred on him a sign of 
appreciation of his praise worthy efforts in the shape of 
about a “half a mule’s ear” of “mountain dew,” “they wint 
at it hammer an’ tongs.” Winthrop, leaning against a 
maple tree trunk, locked his arms behind him over his 
cane and softly whistled to himself. 

“What’s that my good man?” after a tantalizing pause 
in which poor Malachi’s Adam’s apple executed frightful 
convulsions indicative of his veiled emotion. 

“ ‘Twas a knock down an’ drag out argument sor” he 
went on with a pathetic shade to his voice at the frigid 
reception of the big story. 

“Who?” caustically. 

“Th’han’s—who else?” impatiently. 

“Oh—ah!” 

“They didn’t decide on a sthrike.” 

“Indeed?” 

“No sor, they appointed a c’mmittee t’wait on you sor.” 

“To wait on me—ah.” 

“Day—Shea—an’ Fleetley” as if he were running over 
a lesson in school. “An, I suppose Crosby.” Then as if 
an afterthought, “Mysterious Fleetley, sor” as if the mere 
mention of that name didn’t suffice to create the proper 


140 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


attention to be accorded him. And at the significant re¬ 
petition the super permitted himself the nearest approach 
to an intimation of interest he had yet allowed; a trifling 
sign yet not elusive enough to escape the cat like orbs of 
Malachi. “An’ Mysterious Fleetley” he breathed hoarsely 
and coughted asthmatically again. 

“What sort of a chap is this Fleetley” he demanded 
after a long pause. Placated by even this trifling assump¬ 
tion of attention after a series of rebuffs, Malachi pro¬ 
ceeded to make the most of his sudden accession to the sun. 
Always open to the accusation of being extremely econom¬ 
ical with the truth he was more niggardly than ever on 
this occasion, filling in what might have sounded like 
prosaic detail with florid and turbid fable. 

“He don’t belong in no mill be rights—an’ be th’ same 
token he’s here f’r no good” darkly. “He blew in fr’m 
God knows where an’ sorra man nor child knows a wor’rd 
o’ his past—he’s as close as a ‘Down Easter’—but be- 
chune you an’ me an’ th’ gate post sor” with an assump¬ 
tion of real earnestness, “I b’lieve he’s hidin’ fr’m th’ 
law,” which safely out of his system he balanced on the 
other foot a moment. Coggeshall meditated long and 
deeply if his attitude might be taken as a sign. 

“The rest of those names don’t impress me strongly—” 
he mused. 

“No sor” the spy agreed eagerly. 

“But I want to know more about this fellow—what’s 
his name—?” 

“Fleetley—Lance Fleetley sor—’tis an alias sor” scorn¬ 
fully. Then with a wistful inclination of the head, “Shud 
I find out f’r ye sor?” 

“As you please” as if it didn’t please him at all. “Is 
he much among the hands?” Malachi relinquished his 
grasp on his fierce mustache with his teeth. 

“More than all th’ rest o’th’agitators together sor” in 
fine and lying scorn. 

“I see” but evidently didn’t care whether his carrion 
bearer saw or not. At which Malachi hung about, dancing 
from one foot to the other in a vain effort to draw the 
super into further colloquoy until that imperturbable in- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


141 


dividual, sensing that he had sucked the lemon dry, re¬ 
fused to rise to any bait, and rousing from his dream like 
state, strode in to the apartment, leaving the crooked 
little reprobate to boil in his chagrin; he dragged him¬ 
self home in his isolated fashion, feeling every emotion 
over the success of his efforts save degradation—which 
would be the chief concern of a decent minded man. 

But once in his room the air of unconcern and studied 
air of negligence slipped from Coggeshall; he threw off 
his street clothes and despite the lateness of the hour, 
donned a dressing gown, then set to work with the ner¬ 
vous precision and certainty of movement that character¬ 
ized his every action, be it on the athletic field or in the 
mill office. The first important move was to fortify him¬ 
self with the Cognac bottle, out of which he poured him¬ 
self the full of a man’s sized jorum, shot it liberally with 
mineral water and throwing off a generous gulp felt him¬ 
self equal to any occasion. Producing writing materials 
he took his pen in hand for a bout at private and con¬ 
fidential correspondence. 

“Mr. Frank Rollanson, Sebatus, Me., he wrote, “dear 
Frank, I believe I have struck it at last. I have just re¬ 
ceived reliable information that leads me to think a strike 
in the Mill is imminent. The beggars are trying it on 
here at last. There are some amongst them with a vestige 
of sanity and they are working via the committee route— 
ultimate destination yours truly; this last being intimated 
to Craigie some time ago has, as you may well believe, 
aroused every rat in his oaten fed attic. It has been the 
tradition of this very philanthropic institution, where all 
that is necessary for a man to keep out of the poor house 
is to work himself into the grave, never, never, never—or 
if you will pardon me a Pinaforeism— ‘hardly ever’— 
to permit a committee to present a grievance. Going on 
the very laudable theory I suppose, that they can’t, logic¬ 
ally present what they have never had, ha, ha—how 
logical! I am by this time, thanks to my career amongst 
the mills of New England, very much tempted to form 
the opinion that those honored individuals whom my 
respected parent perished to blot off the earth ended their 


142 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


chiaroscuro careers too soon—they should have survived 
to learn something really worth while and no school 
possessed of a better curriculum than that of dear old 
New England where, thrusting aside the crude, amateurish 
stunts of Simon Legree, they might have graduated, cum 
laude, in the oleaginous, sanctimonious, God fearing school 
of the ancient and honored Yankee and Scotchman. 

“Pardon this as it is only by the way, however. I have 
ever yearned to be in command of a mill with a strike in its 
borders, a victim to low, brutal instincts. I have ever 
longed to tread the quarter deck of a gallant, low, rakish 
craft—y’heave ho lads—whose instant and ceremonious 
scuttling has become the supreme interest of the square 
rigged bark hovering in the offing—in short to make a 
long story longer, to engineer a strike from the strikee’s 
point of view. Now, praise heaven, I am to be gratified 
—after which I am ready to live happy forever hereafter 
—or die and not live happy. 

“So kindly still hold in reserve the men you promised 
me in your last. I am sorry you can’t get more woolen 
mill men for the cotton mill men are not up to my notions; 
of course a goodly group of spinners may hold things 
together until the wish bone of the strike is broken. I am 
also sorry that you are forced to insert some Canadians as I 
never could handle them—they set my teeth on edge when 
they start arguing—but I won’t look a gift horse in the 
mouth, much less a gift strike breaker. Remember the 
one word ‘Harvard’ is the sign to start them on at once. 

“Thanking you in advance and assuring you that I will 
reciprocate at the earliest opportunity, I am as ever, 
yours, Win.” 

This he addressed and sealed, after which he indited 
another of practically the same tenor to one Philip S. 
Melloney, Bangor, Me., from which, curt, incisive mis¬ 
sives with their thinly disguised air of humorous irony 
one might be pardoned drawing the conclusions that Mr. 
Winthrop Coggeshall, beneath that insouciant, debonnaire 
exterior contained a fire that might erupt at any moment 
into a volcano of determination, tact and energy—all 
traits calculated to enhance his value in the eyes of the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


143 


keenly critical Craigie as well as the leech like Board of 
Directors. Nor should we neglect to credit some of the 
pride in his achieving to the desire to shine in the eyes 
of a lady x whose errant glances and sparkling behaviour 
were beginning to cause his heart to beat a trifle faster. 

He was at the office a trifle earlier than usual in the 
morning, scorning to dignify the interview of the previous 
evening with Malachi by so much as reference to it—al¬ 
though recognition of it was besought in actions and 
looks by the loose jawed informer hanging around his 
desk like a famished cur lingering in the neighborhood 
of a garbage can. Just before the second and final whistle 
broke hoarsely on the soft, misty air of the morning, six 
thirty to be precise, he took up a position where he could 
scan the faces of the various workers as they filed through 
the office. Beneath the inscrutable mask of his features 
was concealed a glow of satisfaction in noting the black, 
sullen looks of the sleepy men and the whispered chatter 
of the women, hissing their confidences and rumors through 
quivering, whitening lips. When men walk in groups and 
are silent and women talk without any relieving laughter 
—furl your heavy sail in anticipation of a sudden squall 
had always been the idea of the sapient Coggeshall. He 
took mental notes of everything, actions and covert 
glances—then started with a keener scrutiny than at any 
time, particularly careful to size up the refined, clear 
cut, almost aristocratic features of the man Fleetley as, 
sauntering up to the office with his usual buoyant swing, 
he paused an instant to knock the ashes from his pipe on 
the fence post—an operation that simple enough in it¬ 
self seemed, to the lynx eyed super to contain something 
—after he had evidently detected the superior watching 
him—in the nature of insulting disdain for him and the 
precious Mill; a suspicion heightened by the contemptu¬ 
ous smile on his handsome face as he glanced through the 
door in passing by to catch a glimpse of Coggeshall cold¬ 
ly regarding him with the rest of the crowd jamming in. 
Winthrop never removed his eyes from the well set figure 
and military back crowned by a head perfect in contour 
until it disappeared within the massive doors. 


144 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Well, I’ll keep a weather eye aloft for you my hearty” 
he muttered—then cursed Malachi who, at his elbow, af¬ 
fected to think he had addressed him. 

Bridget coming in at the regular time showed with a 
start her surprise at seeing the boss there at that hour; 
outside of his invariably punctilious greeting he vouch¬ 
safed nothing in the way of explanation, so she fell to 
work on the time sheets of the day before. Totally dis¬ 
regarding his own work for a time, he sat in a brown 
study, pondering the feasibility of sounding her on the 
situation up to this point—then deciding to defer exam¬ 
ination to a more favorable opportunity. He thought 
that she could know but little yet that he himself did not 
know and he feared that a hint dropped now might oc¬ 
casion a talk with Val, thus putting him on his guard as 
to the position she was beginning to occupy in the Mill 
as between the hands and the officers. He felt perfectly 
secure with the sneaking Malachi—but what the feelings 
for Val entertained by her, he had not the slightest con¬ 
ception, not being able as yet to determine how far along 
the path indicated by his insidious advice she had traveled. 

He need have given himself little concern on that score 
had he but known it. It never occured to him that the 
trifling leaven he had inserted in their intercourse had 
already begun to work and that the hapless lovers, with¬ 
out exactly sensing the import or comprehending the drift, 
were insensibly drifting apart and meeting in an un¬ 
congenial atmosphere; for one thing, Bridget had evaded 
Val successfully enough to keep from the ball and in deep¬ 
est mortification he had to choose another to be the “belle.” 
Nor had he dared challenge her on it—he wouldn’t risk 
another such quarrel as they had had. Deep as he was 
in the Mill complication he could only argue with him¬ 
self that the subtle change had come with the superin¬ 
tendent taking her into his office while Bridget had ac¬ 
customed herself to an introspection as to her feeling 
toward Val that brought her nowhere. This is at any 
time a dangerous form of amusement, for the seed of 
romanticism may lie immured in the soul with no sensible 
results until it is sought to bring it forth to the light of 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


145 


the sun again, when it may refuse to germinate in the old 
locality. In other words, the more she dissected the 
anatomy of the life Val assured her as his wife the better 
she liked the corpse Coggeshall conjured for her. And 
neither lover suspected the big man of stooping to use 
them in his propaganda. 

Poor, ingenuous little Bridget White was outside her 
type—she was the victim of ambition; the higher school¬ 
ing that had fitted her for the office rather than the loom 
and shuttle had drawn her away notably from all the old 
acquaintances to whom indeed she was still slightly linked 
only by the mutual attraction that had sprung up be¬ 
tween her and the manly Val. Yet, in the last analysis, 
what did his friendship mean? 

The abnegation of the hitherto placid life of virtual in¬ 
dependence in the office just to assume the drudgery of a 
tiny home with a poor man—a home of crude, chilling, 
furnishing, a daily uninteresting tread mill of duty—in 
which the highest test reposed in the bearing and rearing 
of children. The bearing and rearing of innocent ones 
for what?—to satisfy the insatiable belly of the Mill 
with its train of miseries and unending tortures—she shud¬ 
dered and grew faint at the picture she herself conjured. 
She began to marvel that this sordid prospect could ever 
have been alluring; she wondered at that first home coming 
from a party with Val when she had sat on the edge of 
the bed for hours in a quiver of delight that he had 
singled her out of all the pretty girls present. Even then, 
in her maidenly way she had begun to speculate on the 
notions of wedlock, inspired by the tiny incident, certain 
that nothing less would eventuate and happy for it. In 
short, Bridget had arrived at the place where she decided 
to try the experiment of lifting herself out of herself—an 
exercise since become very popular with the ladies. 

At noon on his way out Val stopped for a moment in 
the office, where, after a mere word in curt greeting to 
Bridget, he stood awaiting the attention of the superin¬ 
dent; that latter finally consented to look up from his 
masses of statements, whirl about in his swivel chair, 
tender an enquiring look at the standing foreman and a 


146 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


significant one at Bridget—who took the hint and her 
hat at the same time, to go home to dinner, chancing a 
timid glance at Val (not returned) and going soberly out 
of the office filled with wonder and growing uneasiness. 

“Well?” snapped Coggeshall once they were alone— 
and had Malachi any voice in the matter they would not 
have been for he hung about until the super fairly glared 
him out of the room—thinking by a snappy, repellant in¬ 
troduction to catch the foreman off his guard and con¬ 
fuse him precisely as he had often shot out his mit for 
a stinging blow the instant he had finished shaking hands 
with his boxing adversary. But he came in contact with 
a guard swiftly adjusted, a whirlwind counter in the 
clear, cool eyes lighting up a soul engendered of souls that 
had suffered and fought for centuries—and whose blood 
still ran red and rich in the veins of this nineteenth cen¬ 
tury knight. He stared placidly back at the keen eyes 
firing into his. 

“A c’mmittee of th’men would like t’meet with yer Mr. 
Coggeshall t’talk over Mill affairs.” The boss put as much 
contempt into his answering gaze as a man well could. 

“I suppose you are aware” he ground out in his pol¬ 
ished, deliberate tones, “that it is not the policy of the 
Craigie Mills to deal with its force—vicariously?” The 
poor, unlettered Val only dimly sensed the import of that 
astounding latter word, but he felt its meaning. 

“Yes, I know th’Craigie Mills has refused t’confer with 
th’men on c’mittees, oh yes—but we felt you are not the 
old Craigie Mills.” That was a stinger and Coggeshall 
was man enough to take it straight between the eyes; his 
features almost imperceptibly softened and his gaze was 
now more of an admiring nature. 

“In spite of Mannix’s history you fellows want me to 
take the ditch and hedge do you?” he sneered; Val nodded 
and wrinkled his cap in his firm, muscular fingers. 

“But you’re not Mannix—that poor devil was one of us 
and so spoke us, not himself, see? Yer different, see?” 
and even one less acute than Coggeshall would have to 
see that line of talk. He drummed softly on the desk 
while he seemed to revolve in his head, something so long 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


147 


Val’s heart sank in fear that after all he was to disappoint 
them. 

‘"But are you sure you’ve got a grievance, Crosby?” he 
demanded finally and in a not unkind tone that heartened 
the wistful waiter. Val smiled—bitterly. 

“We’re afflicted with more diseases than th’Board or 
th’Old Man’ll ever cure f r us, believe me” earnestly. He 
paused awkwardly again, fumbling the while with his 
cap. “I realize that th’Mill t’be run an’ pay th’stock- 
holders big money must do it somehow—but d’yer honest¬ 
ly believe Mr. Coggeshall—an’ I ask this as man t’man 
—d’yer honestly think that all th’silk should be spun 
out of our hides?” Coggeshall revolved half way about 
in his easy chair that he might put behind him the ac¬ 
cusing, appealing face of the foreman, looking out on the 
patch of emerald lawn beside the Mill where the pretty 
sheep were nibbling contentedly in cool, white bunches— 
their situation might easily be coveted by the humans 
about them, he thought soberly! It was hard work for 
an honest minded man such as he tried to be to evade the 
direct issue of that question. 

“Perhaps we’d better talk that over in the committee 
meeting” he said at length, abruptly, “When would you 
like to meet with me?” swinging back to face him and 
gazing at his watch. 

“I’ll leave that to you sir” much relieved that his 
sudden suspicion had been allayed. 

“How about tonight then?” carelessly. 

“O.K. with us, yes.” 

“Here?” with a half yawn. 

“Jus’ as yer say Mr. Coggeshall.” He snapped the 
cover of his desk down. 

“All right” coming briskly to his feet and whistling to 
Larry holding his horse across the street in the shade of 
the pines, “try to get here not later than eight o’clock” 
in a tone that held much of command. Then he strode 
out of the office leaving the dazed Val to follow at his 
pleasure. 

Inside an hour after the quarter to one whistle had 
sounded summoning all hands back to purgatory, every 


148 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

employe of the Craigie Mill knew that the committee was 
to meet with the new super that night; a little later and 
it was speeding its way throughout the surrounding com¬ 
munity with a rapidity and celerity rivalled only by the 
advance notices of a coming nuptial event or its con¬ 
comitant incident of admission into their circles of another 
operative—via the bearded doctor route. 

To Bridget there came a glow of pride and satisfaction 
in the knowledge that the initiating of the blow for free¬ 
dom arose with Val—yet it was unaccompanied by any 
softening of the heart predicating an intention to set 
their wedding day, as he had begged during their- last 
talk. It was also a source of well hidden and secret satis¬ 
faction to note the ugly looks of Craigie and the Board 
in discussing this unheard of and topsy turvy interpreta¬ 
tion of labor fundamentals; Bunton and Prugh and Carter 
plainly intimated that they washed their immaculate digits 
of the affair, hinting darkly that the Old Man need not 
look to them for comfort after having tacitly permitted 
this new and untried superintendent to inaugurate a system 
that bore every impress of being akin to one engineered 
previously by Messrs. Robespierre, Marat and Doctor 
Guillotine—all of which of course had its beneficent and 
soothing effect on the temper of the irascible old Scotch¬ 
man. Coggeshall alone retained his habitual air of cold 
disdain and bland reticence, not even deeming it worth 
while to beg the excited stock holders to possess their souls 
in patience, not to fly in the face of an all bountiful Prov¬ 
idence, but rather to preserve that attitude of saintly resig¬ 
nation in adversity that they advocated (and employed 
preachers to preach) to the toilers. Yet it would be a 
poor student of human nature that could not detect in 
every gesture and word an excessive zeal and iron clad 
determination. The young aristocrat was trying hard to 
bear in mind that, like the boys and the frogs in the fable, 
what was fun to him was death to the workers—and the 
still more miserable owners. 

It was a pleasing diversion in the long, trying day to 
have Grace drive up for her uncle before closing the 
office, even if she vouchsafed him less time and conversa- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


149 


tion than she did the alert Bridget with whom she had 
cultivated a firm and tender intimacy. It was of Bridget 
indeed she was thinking the night she argued with Cogges- 
hall and she was ever seeking to peer into the soul of the 
pretty toiler, striving to detect in her any sign of dis¬ 
satisfaction or discontent with her lot—but Bridget was 
impervious to her kindly hints; religion had well in¬ 
stilled a happy trust and composed mind in the wisdom 
and goodness of her Creator. It was of no use Grace’s 
striving to elevate her mind to a token of unrest—the little 
clerk was satisfied with her work and future, of which the 
other became assured in the frank and unreserved revela¬ 
tions her kindliness engendered. 

And it was Grace eventually who, outside of Val, alone 
was enabled to see the shade of difference stealing over 
the manner and conversation of the little woman after fall¬ 
ing under the spell of the hypnotizing Coggeshall; it seem¬ 
ed at times that she was not receiving from her the old, 
pure hearted admissions, that she no longer strove for her 
advice in the minor details of her social life, that she 
thought all Grace said was infallible. It provoked a 
vague fear, a sense of uneasiness—like Val her first sus¬ 
picion fell upon the superintendent but it was as quickly 
hushed; she was not fool enough to try to hide from her¬ 
self the knowledge that he was paying court to her, and 
that a side glance at the working girl erected an impas¬ 
sable barrier at once. No, it was occasioned by a far 
different state of affairs and what it was must remain a 
matter of murky conjecture; that it had to do with the 
affairs of the Mill was for a long time as far from her 
thoughts as that it concerned Bridget sexually, she never 
dreamed that the brilliant man of the world could descend 
to a level much beneath that essayed by men of common¬ 
er clay. So the revelation came with redoubled force when 
it finally cleared. 


150 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Father O’Connor, returning from a sick call that even¬ 
ing, met Val; with his ear full of the mutterings among 
his people he determined to sound the young fellow on 
the outlook, going about it plumply, approaching the 
topic with the certainty he would have employed in the 
Confessional. 

“What’s going on in the Mill?” he demanded sharply 
as they swung along together; Val threw away his cigar 
stub before answering. 

“We’ve decided t’try th’effect of another c’mmittee on 
th’Old Man” he answered simply. 

“You have chosen a good committee have you?” search- 
ingly. 

“There aint a better amongst th’hands”—running over the 
names, all of whom, with the exception of Fleetley, were 
well known to the priest. “Besides” with a pardonable 
pride in his resolution, “I intend to go with them.” Father 
O’Connor knew the latent meaning there—a foreman lend¬ 
ing dignity to the appeal of the men and he shot a grate¬ 
ful glance at the unconscious face of his young parish¬ 
ioner. “I guess we’ll get a better hearing now.” The 
priest nodded his satisfaction. 

“I am sure of it” he encouraged heartily; “I have a 
decided opinion that this man Coggeshall is not of the 
archaic type that infests our mill towns—particularly the 
town of Fern Park” grimly. 

“Any way” he grinned, “we’ve learned a lesson since 
the affair with Mannix, we’ve got our eye teeth cut elegant- 

ly-” 

“To which let me add a trifle of advice Val” and look¬ 
ing at him again the young foreman was struck with the 
wan looks and weary features of the young curate—work 
and worry were plainly making their inroads even on his 
buoyant constitution. “Fight the idea of a strike to the 
last ditch.” They proceeded in silence for some time 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


151 


after that, Val cogitating and fearing to reveal his hid¬ 
den doubts of the outcome of such a battle—he hated to 
add to the only too patent distress of Father O’Connor 
in such a time. 

“I’m right with you on that proposition Father” he said 
slowly and thoughtfully, gloom tinging his voice despite 
his efforts at being unconcerned, “I relish a strike even 
less than you, but I very much fear—” 

“There is a tendency then?” in anxious tones, the pre¬ 
mature lines of distress accentuating on his white brow. 

“Why, not to beat about the bush, lots of them are 
itching because we employ a committee at all” he laughed, 
not gladly, “many of them see nothing but strike.” Father 
O’Connor tried to laugh with him, but it ended in a stifled 
sigh. 

“True—a strike is a fine solution—for the owners,” 
and he fell into bitter musing. A strike now, in the pres¬ 
ent state of the parish—merciful God! 

“But aint it possible f’r us t’win?” trying to inject 
hope into the corpse of their forebodings. 

“It is extremely problematical at this juncture. Any re¬ 
course to force or coercion is at all times a dubious settle¬ 
ment as it leaves the main question forever suspended be¬ 
tween heaven and earth—like a draw in the prize ring, it 
leaves each contestant certain that he would have eventu¬ 
ally won.” Val could assimilate that metaphor and he 
grinned almost cheerfully. “Even at that I know your 
cause is just enough to deserve a victory while I still 
cling to the hope that you will see your way to accepting 
a half loaf if it is proffered you peaceably.” 

“Oh, I’ll take it any time in preference to a strike” Val 
assured him and they parted, the young priest carrying 
away a still heavier load of foreboding than that with 
which he had been afflicted almost from the start, he wished 
Father Byrne was back—he felt himself totally unfitted 
to assume the burden of advisor in such a crisis. 

At quarter to eight, Day, Fleetley and Shea accompanied 
by Val presented themselves at the office where, to their 
evident relief expressed by a sigh or two from some and 
a fervent oath or two from Day, they found Coggeshall 



152 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

alone; it was no use trying to argue themselves into a 
confidence in their errand when they expected to be con¬ 
fronted by the Old Man, there was something dark and 
sinster in his very presence that chilled the most sanguine 
and retarded the opening word of the most glib tongue. 
Assuming the role of spokesman Val transmitted the 
message as it had been conveyed to them by the meeting 
and the super listened with an air that while it did not 
elevate their feelings at least commended itself by its keen 
aspect of attention, an attitude not marred even by Val’s 
stumbling and crude presentation of the matter. In the 
rather constrained silence that followed the recital Cogge- 
shall under the appearance of deliberating and digesting, 
took the opportunity to keenly and searchingly study the 
most interesting personage in the delegation, Fleetley. 

“Weir’ crisply when he had got good and ready to 
respond, “if that is the total of your instructions, I feel 
fully prepared to answer everything at once*’ which oc¬ 
casioned a sly exchange of glances on the part of Lance and 
Val, it indicated that he knew of their demands beforehand. 
“I assure you in advance that in whatever answer I give 
the Board will certainly concur.” Here he and Fleetley 
swapped regards—Coggeshall almost saying “What the 
devil business have you with these fellows?”—a look that 
might have contained mutual distrust or instinctive sus¬ 
picion, a look that rather made the super feel he was 
confronted by an antagonist (as he chose to regard him) 
worthy of even his spotless steel, while Lance, with the 
imperturbable, amused smile of the man who reads his foe 
easily, felt pretty sure that the whole affair had been 
threshed out—maybe with his conscience as well as with the 
Board’s—who could tell? 

“We believed” said Shea with the studious deliberation 
of age that at least inspires respect “that we were to deal 
with th’ man in power when we talked t 'you” at which 
delicate tribute to his position Coggeshall condescended a 
nod that might have been in pleasure or contempt. Again 
they awaited the opening of the mouth of the oracle. 

“As to the age minimum for children” he said un¬ 
emotionally as he toyed with a pen holder on his desk, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


153 


“I must remind you as men of sense and readers of the 
daily press that the time has not yet come for an abolition 
of that class of labor—despite its distressing features; 
mills simply cannot exist if forced to hire men demanding 
the mature salaries they do now,” and he finished as if 
more engrossed with balancing the pen than impressing 
the committee. 

‘"You say the time is not here yet” interpolated Fleetley 
smoothly, and the discerning Coggeshall was struck with the 
grace of the well modulated tones, “leaving us to infer 
I suppose that you agree with us that the time must come?” 
at which Coggeshall bowed gravely. 

“Most assuredly—but not in our generation.” 

“Where we differ” hotly from George Day, “where we 
differ” still more warmly as he dropped the left leg from 
the right knee and put the right leg over the left knee as 
truculently as that gesture may be made. 

“Yet when it does come”—with a total ignoring of the 
words and movement, 

“Is apt, very apt, to come out of the mouths of guns” 
Lance finished for him cheerfully; the super shrugged 
deprecatory shoulders and slightly raised his sharply 
penciled eyebrows, while the very ghost of an ironic smile 
made his lip twitch. 

“I see no indication that the country is preparing for 
another rebellion—” 

“T’won’t be rebellion,” George shot in again but Lance 
broke in on him. 

“Nearer ripe for the propaganda of labor than many a 
sleek capitalist thinks—or maybe cares to admit” as 
smoothly as ever. After which Coggeshall furtively studied 
him to the entire exclusion of the rest. 

“Now, what has been your experience throughout your 
travels?” blandly, “Mr.—er—Fleetley, is it not?” with a 
suave sop intended to tempt him into a retrospect that 
might tend to enlighten as to his true worth, but which the 
intended victim lightly thrust aside as unworthy of attention 
as being irrelevant—as it was intended to be. Fleetley 
laughed happily. 

“The influx of cheap foreign labor is bringing with it a 



154 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

system of force—people who can t argue with tongues as 
well as—as well as we do for instance” with a bright sig¬ 
nificance. “Many of them have been virtually decoyed into 
big places like the mills of Pennsylvania by the promises 
of big wages that only tend to create a system of higher 
prices in adopting our way of living—eventually they will 
begin to study a way to cut the knot.” 

“Oh, but we have none of that in our New England Mills 
—all skilled labor here you know” with a nasty sneer. 

“You betcher” the nimble tongued George thrust him¬ 
self in again. 

“True—but the mill owners are trying to supplant them 
—you know that” with a look that could not be evaded. 

“Oh my dear sir” in well assumed disavowal. 

“With the same grade of labor that is sweating in mines 
and factories” warmly. As far as their notice of the rest 
went they might just as well have been back in the hall, 
but they were perfectly willing to sit back in keen relish of 
a contest wherein their own man was using the tools pre¬ 
cedent always accorded the boss. 

“Well” with an impatient gesture as if tiring suddenly 
of the trend of the discussion, dubious as well of the wisdom 
of allowing himself to be humbled before the hands, “that 
feature of the demands is refused, emphatically, so we 
might as well pass on to the rest.” It was not indeed a 
vital question as yet with the operatives and they were 
ready enough to pass on the graver grievances, even 
George forbearing a curse or a growl at thought of the 
report they must make to the crowd. 

“Now” sparing his words evidently, “we are quite ready 
to grant the increase in rates per hour—but not a curtail¬ 
ing of the hours with it.” The gleam of joy that shot 
athwart the countenances of all in the beginning of the 
announcement faded swiftly at the significant conclusion— 
which seemed to amuse Coggeshall if a slight curl of the 
lips signified amusement. They stared blankly at each 
other several minutes, reluctant to begin the argument— 
the child labor question could indeed safely lie in abeyance 
pending adjustment of the other grievances but the refusal 
to grant a reduction in the long, racking hours offered a 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


155 


convenient hook on which to hang a strike argument; 
Day’s muscular fist involuntarily clinched and unclinched, 
his face crimsoned angrily, while an ugly look stole 
over his usually good natured countenance. 

“Yet th long hours are beginning t’put on th’shelf every 
old employee of th’Mill” Shea complained after a time 
dully; “we are th’most skillful labor ye have, th’Old 
Man admits that, boasts of it in fact, but we c’n no longer 
stand th’gaff—we c’n no longer stand th’gaff” in pitiable 
despondency. Coggeshall overlooked his venerable shrink¬ 
ing frame in a long, unsympathetic scrutiny. 

“Yet you don’t expect the Board to maintain a charitable 
institution here do you?” with an ill becoming sneer; 
“its a give and take world after all and those who arrive 
at the retiring age unprepared—seem to me to have their 
own folly to kiss for it” with a disdain that chilled the 
hearts of the listeners and drew from Fleetley a glance 
that the super would have given hundreds to have been 
able to interpret. Of course, having had his retiring age 
provided for he was excellent authority. He permitted 
that to soak in, holding himself well in hand meanwhile 
that no word or expression might be construed as an 
intention to arbitrate the matter. Val fetched a huge sigh. 

“Are we t’take this as an answer of th’Board then?” he 
questioned dismally as they came to their feet. Coggeshall 
nodded carelessly. 

“That is precisely what you may tell the hands” and he 
made the reply as harsh as possible, “that is final—but I 
am willing and ready to listen to any other proposition 
that you may see fit to bring up” which indifferent attempt 
at washing his hands of precipitancy in the affair failed 
to impress any one of them—Fleetley least of all if one 
might judge by the contemptuous way in which he slid a 
match along the woodwork and cooly lighted his pipe. 

“Maybe something else vital may occur to you” with a 
triumphant glance at Lance as if challenging him to utter 
what he thought upon, but that individual, without so much 
as a word beyond a curt “good night” led the way out of 
the office—to the disappointment and chagrin of Coggeshall 
who stood gazing after him in the attitude of a man re- 


156 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

penting of his action and half inclined to call him for 
further conference. 

The various members of the committee, as if fearful 
of trusting themselves to talk at that moment, parted in 
absolute silence, the tense silence of men too deep in cog¬ 
itation to brook an interruption—every face seamed with 
the deep sense of responsibility suddenly thrust upon the 
owner. There was nothing for it but to issue a call for 
the meeting to hear and pass upon their report and Saturday 
night was the night selected for it. 

Long before the accustomed hour the men began to desert 
the usual haunts, the street corners, the pool rooms and 
cheap stores where they overlooked in a bored fashion 
the bargains while their critical wives purchased. Those 
who condescended to assist in the family marketing 
relinquished their baskets to children or wives and turned 
soberly away for the Rookery. By eight o’clock it was 
packed to suffocation as not only were the sturdy members 
of the newly formed union there but those hold backs eager 
to see to what extent others would venture in their behalf, 
quite willing to enter into the affair having assured them¬ 
selves of the way the cat was about to jump. Val pre¬ 
sided, delegating Fleetley to read the report which in due 
time he did in that awful silence that portends a driving 
storm. 

As he finished and before a voice could be raised in 
dissent or assent, he gazed about him through the blue 
haze of tobacco smoke, his glances ranging in unadulterated 
pity and distress over the hushed gathering; there were 
young men, vibrant with the glow and vigor of age—a 
health they strenuously sought to preserve in the miasma of 
an ill heated, ill lighted and ill ventilated work shop. 
He caught in his regards the mature man of family, bowed 
not only beneath the weight of his losing fight, crushed by 
the devastating toil, but ground by the hourly, daily and 
everlasting worry of the future of the offspring he had in¬ 
advertently doomed to the same tread mill he himself would 
be forced to vacate, gray faced, heavy eyed, brooding, sul¬ 
lenly despairing. He saw the old men such as the patient 
Shea, men who had given the best years of their lives to the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


157 


Mill, who—despite Coggeshall’s sarcasm—had been unable 
to put away the competence necessary to forestall the visit 
of the poor inspector, tottering to the inevitable goal, 
glancing ever and anon at the young speaker from the eyes 
of the dumb beast craving in its last moments the assistance 
he was unable to render. It was a hard sight, a moving 
spectacle, a bleak thought that any man should look for¬ 
ward to the grave as a merciful release from the callous 
injustice of his Brother Man. 

He knew as well as anyone that the growth of wages 
did not attempt to keep pace with the tide of living ex¬ 
penses—not luxuries—as the capitalists sought to prove; 
scarce a man in that hall was more than a step ahead of 
the procession to the poor house. Some there were with 
small families who had fought a fierce fight and stifling 
personal ambition kept their heads above water; some 
there were beginning to enjoy the advantage of the sparse 
wage of their children; many who existed by reason of 
never dissipating a penny for selfish amusement. Yet there 
was not one, absolutely not one, prepared to walk out of 
the Craigie Mill at that instant without the dread of being 
hungry in a week. Yet, strangest of all, they were happy 
in a way, happy in good consciences, in a degree of 
health, happy in a brotherly state of friendship, at which 
the worldly Fleetley wondered most of all. 

The brutal, drear, bleakness of it all surged over him 
like a mist of the marshes hiding the land, a film over¬ 
spread his eyes, a weak tribute to his interest in these 
lowly fellow toilers, the while his innermost soul raged 
and fumed at the cruelty, the unutterable cruelty of it 
all; they were still motionless in breathless, fascinated 
attention when he succeeded in choking back the tide of 
rebellious pity that threatened to mar his work and turn¬ 
ing to the pallid faced Val uttered in his ordinary clear 
and scholarly tones: 

“I move the adoption of the report!” There ensued a 
long, distressing silence broken at length by old man Shea 
who in a quivering voice seconded the motion; Val put 
it in a husky tone and the instant his voice died away 
the peace of the Rookery was shattered in a blast that 


153 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


approximating the wild growl of a menagerie of hungry 
beasts climaxed into a furious riot of contending shrieks, 
hoots and calls that fairly rocked the crazy tenement. 
Day finally was recognized and the event was the signal 
for a renewed outburst that all his scowling and signalling 
failed to crush for many moments. 

His face was purpled in the impotent rage of a brave 
man, his immense form quivered under the stress of his 
emotions, his bull like voice now rumbled, now shrilled 
into a scream as he broke into a torrent of invective against 
the adoption of the motion. He carried his audience with 
him, he lifted it on as on a wave with the vigor of every 
gesture, he thrust every emotion of the enraged human 
under his feet and picking it up hurled it against the 
ceiling, creating an impression with each searing denunci¬ 
ation that gathered momentum and size as a snow ball 
rolling down a steep hill; those rude, uncouth toilers 
sitting beneath him, frozen into bewildered statues, were 
as helpless under his merciless—even if ungrammatical— 
logic as a rudderless ship drifting on a lee shore in a 
full gale. He shook his paralleled arms at Val, at the 
imperturbable Lance nestled back against the wall in his 
chair, at the assemblage in augumented fury—winding it 
all up in an impassioned cry from the very depths of his 
soul that was an anathema on the report as well as the 
senseless Board that had provoked it. 

The instant he regained his seat the Rookery again be¬ 
came a seething, crackling mass of combustible, lit by 
the fire of his oratory, rage and inconsiderate clamors 
for the rejection of every point of the report—they would 
have nothing that savored of condescension on the part 
of the super. Parliamentary rules were flung to the 
winds as men talked and gesticulated to their neighbors 
when the chair was unable to untangle them sufficiently 
to give them the floor; the ordinary stolid blood had 
been fired by Day’s philippic and there was no cooling 
it that night. It was sheer physical exhaustion finally 
brought about the calm that permitted the chairman to 
be heard in extended explanation. 

Now Fleetley addressed them, his suave tones a bene- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 159 

ficent contrast to those of the crazed George; he assured 
them of sympathy in greeting the unsatisfactory conces¬ 
sions, but felt sure that a dispassionate review of the situa¬ 
tion might lead—as the super had hinted—to another 
proposal that would meet with a better fate. Coggeshall 
seemed a reasonable fellow— 

“He is—he has such a beautiful disposition he cud 
love a bull frog” broke in the irrepressible Mike, causing 
precisely the amount of humor needed to allay a great 
deal of the tragedy. 

He was reasonable, he went on, and from his point of 
view seemed to offer a good chance for arbitration. But 
the meeting would have none of mediation (George had 
settled that), they listened to him in sulky, defiant silence, 
just like stubborn children determined to bring on the 
“good licking” long promised, only hearkening to him 
indeed because of that instinctive deference due to good 
breeding and sincerity, but on the whole rapidly growing 
less amenable to argument of a nature tending to reason. 
The instant he sat down there came a volley of “Question” 
“Question” from every angle of the room and certain that 
the hour for sensible debate had passed Val put the ques¬ 
tion. It was defeated with a Niagara like roar. 

“Now Mr. Chairman” shouted Day still hoarse from the 
recent efforts, “I move that the employes of the Craigie 
Mill walk out next Monday morning.” That was seconded 
from every corner of the room and Val, sick at heart as 
his ghastly face indicated, put the new motion and pa¬ 
tiently awaited the expected debate. None realized. The 
assmblage was through with words. He looked appeal¬ 
ingly across the floor at Fleetley, sitting viewing the scene 
placidly from beneath veiled eyes, mutely calling on him 
for a last ditch stand, but that individual, lolling almost 
indifferently in his chair shook a negation—he wanted to 
see the inevitable end hastened. And so the question was 
put—put and carried with that senseless haste that por¬ 
tends bitter tardy repentance. 

The much desired strike ordered, the business of the 
evening was over; they filed down out of the building in 
a myriad of moods; a few with the sobriety of a man 
the morning after, suffering a ringing head and a sour 


160 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


stomach, some calling for the lash who shrank from words, 
some bewildered, plainly; and most—fearful now. The 
ignus fatuus of wresting power from a superior was at 
last within reach and it was only necessary to reach out 
a hand to grasp it; its swift possession was to determine 
whether some one had been fooled in the selection of the 
handsome, modestly inclined young aristocrat as a super¬ 
intendent or not. 

And even as they discussed it in the gloomy homes, on 
the street corners, in the seclusion of dusky and retired 
porches beside their anxious sweethearts, discussing it at 
last in the way they should have but did not , in the meet¬ 
ing hall, Malachi was rehearsing the whole affair for the 
benefit of the nonchalant—outwardly—Coggeshall, who 
listened to it with much the air he assumed when Larry 
grieved over the limp in the Morgan mare. For the secrets 
of the Rookery were as an open book to the mean little 
spy, enabled, thanks to alternate applications of eye and 
ear to the knot hole in the closet beside the meeting room, 
that he had ferreted out after being emphatically and pro¬ 
fanely refused admittance thereto, to hear and see all that 
went on. 

When the last word bearing on the proceedings had 
been syphoned from his filthy recesses Coggeshall sought 
the telegraph office just before closing time and the magic 
word “Harvard” was flashed to Maine to the two comrades 
Down East, thus made aware that the expected crisis had 
arisen for their friend whom they hastened to relieve as 
they had promised. After which he returned to the hotel 
where, between the Cognac, the grateful hot plunge and 
listening to Larry’s alternate gossip and rendition of bars 
from “Then You’ll Remember Me,” lowly and soberly 
executed, managed to beguile the hours almost to daylight. 

And as he sat there so well satisfied with himself and the 
world, with his prospects with the beautiful and accom¬ 
plished niece of Craigie, no longer trying to resist the 
spell she had cast over him, vivid day dreams of whom 
mingled bewilderingly with schemes for the clash with 
the workers—Father O’Connor sat in his study, after a 
long and trying night in the Confessional, finishing his 
Office, striving to hide his dismay and foreboding in the 


FROM THE MEETING POT INTO THE MOLD 161 

anthems of the Church, trying to blot out for an instant 
the immensity of the impending catastrophe hovering 
over the beloved people, praying as he looked up in¬ 
voluntarily from the lines that danced before his aching 
and sleepy eyes, that if a sacrifice were necessary to pre¬ 
serve the helpless community, God in His infinite wisdom 
and mercy might select him. Little knowing that it had 
already been done. 

He gained pretty fair accounts of the meeting from the 
altar boys as he vested for Mass in the morning and 
hastily substituting for the begging sermon, carefully re¬ 
hearsed for a week, a few remarks on the strike, he talked 
to them from the heart as a man to a man. He counselled 
prudence, restraint and absolute refusal to engage in vio¬ 
lence whatever the circumstances. And he added to his 
pious exhortations a dark threat of what would happen 
should he catch any member of his congregation trans¬ 
gressing in any particular. He assured them that although 
opposed to strikes in the main, he was beginning to feel 
that nothing short of it could clear the atmosphere of a 
town long since sunken in oppression. He promised them 
his heartiest prayers so long as they deserved them as 
peaceful, law abiding citizens. Once again, after the last 
Gospel, instead of dropping at least a hint of a begging 
campaign, he turned to them and begged them not to dis¬ 
grace themselves in the eyes of the non Catholic citizens 
of the town. Indeed, as Mike sadly said when they got 
out without a word in the collection line, he hardly felt 
as if he had been to Mass. 

Which being communicated to the super by the sad 
faced Larry rather tended to alleviate a trace of uneasi¬ 
ness he had entertained in the mapping out of his crafty 
plan of battle; if the good priest would only tie the hands 
of the rash and violent Irish, soften the too ready fist, all 
would yet be well—very well indeed—and he almost felt 
like seeking out Father O’Connor to help on in a hypo¬ 
critical way the method he contemplated—the least he 
might do for him, he grinned to himself, was to make a 
contribution to the building fund. Mr. Winthrop Cogges- 
hall began to believe he had been born under a lucky 

star. 


162 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XV. 

Yet as the day wore on traces of the strain made them¬ 
selves manifest even on the exterior of the blase young 
Coggeshall; while not having the same interest in the 
impending struggle as his unfortunate predecessor Man- 
nix, who, like the rabbit in the fable ran for his life, 
whereas the aristocrat only ran for amusement, he was 
under the stress of the incentive of pride, a terrible goad 
in itself and tinted darkly with premonition. So he found 
himself worrying despite himself. 

He found some solace in bitter curses on the Pharisaism 
(as he liked to term it) of the old Presbyterian Craigie 
who in his benighted philosophy forbade an approach to 
a social call on the Sabbath—and the ardent lover craved 
(if not a word) at least a satisfying glance at the object 
of his fiery devotion. He ached for an interchange of 
opinion with her acute mind, he longed to probe the tex¬ 
ture of her sentiment to learn whether she leaned toward 
the harsher or kindlier attitude in the oncoming struggle. 
He was sufficiently a mind reader to have gleaned a strong 
suspicion that her sympathies—as far as she dared nourish 
them in the house of her uncle—were with the unfortunate 
mill hands; therefore a knowledge of her like or dislike 
of the methods he had elected to pursue was vital. More 
disturbing still was her indifference toward his suit, she 
having chosen so far to refuse to acknowlege even in vir¬ 
ginal manner her idea of the spell he sought to weave. 

The day turned damp, foggy and somewhat chill for 
the season; he lolled from room to room too preoccupied 
and nervous to read or reflect, too engrossed with weigh¬ 
ing the possibilities even to return the fitful banter of 
Larry, suspiciously loquacious, who flitted in and out re¬ 
galing himself and any unfortunate bystander with “Be¬ 
lieve Me” and “Then You’H Remember” with a rigid per¬ 
severance that would have wrung bitter revilings from any 
other than Coggeshall—the affection for Larry was, up to 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 163 

this point, the one hallowed, warm, unselfish nook in his 
callous heart. 

But Larry’s jollity was only on the surface as with the 
deepening of the tokens of mental distress on the face of 
his master the tougher became the situation for his loyal 
heart, cruelly divided between fealty to the youth he loved 
better than himself and the cause of “his own” as he chose 
to denominate the Mill people—particularly the Irish 
portion. His work all done in the evening he quietly seat¬ 
ed himself to hope for a break in the moody cogitation of 
his friend who, after dining well, sat in distraught fashion 
beneath the cheery glow of the big lamp. 

“Have you any relatives living Larry?” came with such 
a disconcerting abruptness as to cause Larry to start and 
rub his eyes as if awakened from a slight slumber; Cogges- 
hall was peering at him from out the rim of light. 

“Why” he began, running his hand through his slightly 
graying hair in memory arousing fashion, “1 did have a 
sister in Milwaukee—whether there now or not I don’t 
know sor.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “An’ there’s 
two brothers out west sor—mebbe they’re dead be this, 
I dunno sor” in simple pathos. Coggeshall lighted his pipe 
and puffed in sombre silence awhile. 

“Ever have any desire to meet them again Larry?” The 
latter looked up with tears in his keen eyes. 

“God knows, an’ He knows all things, I would sor” rub¬ 
bing his hands together in distress. “Y’see sor, t’was this 
way—whin we landed in this country we was thrown on 
our own resources—each f’r himsel’—an’ so scattered 
t’th’four winds o’ heaven t’get th’bite an’ sup t’kape sowl 
an’ body t’gether. We little thought whin we parted t’was 
f’rever” and his head dropped in solemn misery. 

“Pretty good thing on the whole to have your own flesh 
and blood about you isn’t it, Larry?” to which he nodded 
a long and dreary confirmation. 

“I’d give that ar-rm” thrusting out his right arm, “If 
t’would unite us f’r one moment befure we was laid away 
sor” with earnest tears trickling down his features. 

“Do you know Larry that since you mentioned my 
brother that I am beginning to experience that same long- 


164 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


ing” with a gravity and soberness that put him in a new 
light before the bewildered eyes of Coleman; they studied 
each other intently a moment with the new connecting 
link asserting itself. 

“D’ye tell me now?” he finally managed to whisper, 
with no inkling as to what was to follow. 

“I have been feeling—I can’t describe it—let us call it 
presentiment or instinct or mere devilish longing for what 
I can’t attain—at any rate there’s a sort of feeling that 
my brother is still alive Larry.” It was uttered in a 
wistful manner that the shrewd Larry at once read as a 
desire to learn his views and he quickly came to the rescue. 

“Why thin” after a solemn pause during which a thought 
flashed upon him that perhaps the poor little mother in 
heaven was working on the soul of her offspring to turn 
it into the Church, a thought so overwhelmingly brilliant 
as almost to overcome him, “why thin sor, God is good— 
an’ who knows but he is alive sor?” straining to put 
into the query an enthusiasm his business like soul didn’t 
entertain. 

“You see” he ran on softly as if merely uttering his 
thoughts aloud, “the whole cursed business of my being 
has been such a queer, incredible sort of thing that I have 
began to cuddle myself into the belief that there is a log¬ 
ical solution to the very illogical affair; in other words 
that sense is to be wrought out of mystery, eh?” Larry 
opened his mouth to answer—then wisely closed it again. 
“What do you say to giving me a lift, Larry?” The first 
effect of this plump approach was to cause Larry to sit 
up in bewilderment. A lift for what? 

“Me give you a lift sor—ye mane?” then it seemed to 
strike him all at once. He banged his knee with his 
clinched fist enthusiastically. “An’ by gr-rab, who else 
cud help ye betther than me sor? Divil a one knows th’ 
circumstances bether than me, do they sor?” already 
awakened with all the inpulsiveness of his race. 

“That is just how I figured it” Coggeshall ran on, with 
a thrill in his voice that denoted his pleasure that another 
had taken kindly to the shape of his recent visions, his eye 
also lighting as it had not all the dreary day. “I’m going 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


165 


to let you make a try at it anyhow, Larry” starting to his 
feet suddenly, pacing the room as if in a fever of indecision, 
his brows knitted in deep thought and his face alternately 
lighting and darkening in the whirlwind of conflicting 
emotions, giving every evidence of a surge of thought, 
characteristic of his alert and powerful brain. 

“La ’—me see—where cud I begin?” pondered poor 
Larry lost in the vastness and obscurity of the project. 

“Go to Fort Hill—rake it with a fine tooth comb—spare 
no expense—money is no object” in a tumult of emotion, 
“surely, surely you will run across someone that will re¬ 
call the family and the circumstances—those women you 
spoke about—the whole thing was unusual enough to at¬ 
tract even their attention forever, someone, someone must 
know Larry, mustn't they?” he pleaded, “Come on now, 
can’t you start a thought?” he begged impatiently. 

“Yes, there must be someone” frowning in the effort to 
recall any name that would freshen his memory, “But” 
with a sorrowful wag of the head, “’tis not on’y a long 
while ago sor, but there’s th’ big fire that scattered all 
th’ould timers—Lor-rd on’y knows where they wint—but 
I’ll thry, I’ll thry, make no mistake about that sor.” 

“Do like a good fellow” finally permitting himself the 
luxury of a chair while he ran over in his mind the schemes 
that must have obsessed it in the last few days, “it is a 
life and death sensation with me” which he need not have 
explained—the warm hearted Celt could see that for him¬ 
self. 

In the ensuing silence he pondered this new and dis¬ 
concerting turn in the taciturn career of his young employ¬ 
er; breaking out as it did in a moment of supreme trial, at 
the apex of a struggle, at a time when reason dictated that 
all extraneous thoughts should lie in abeyance until the 
result of the other affair had been determined, it struck 
to the soul of the emotional Irishman. He felt a sign of 
flesh creeping as he yielded, despite himself, to the super¬ 
stitious foreboding engendered by the gruesome topic— 
hailed from the horrid recesses of the tomb at an untoward 
hour. To his Celtic mind, still crammed with “signs” 
and “warnings,” the diversion was nothing less than a 


166 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“token”— she had been of pretty good family in the old 
country and the guiding wraith of all old families had no 
doubt chosen this inopportune moment to desert the halls 
of its ancestors— “Christ bechune us an’ all harm” fur¬ 
tively crossing himself—to float across the waters at her 
bidding to warn her offspring. Larry shuddered; he sick¬ 
ened apprehensively as on that night in the presence of 
grim death itself he, the young greenhorn, at the awful 
midnight hour, had sallied on his errand of mercy to guide 
the brutal and unworthy husband to the dying chamber of 
his hapless spouse. God had guided his fearful steps that 
night—might He not at this moment have yielded to her 
prayers to again entrust a solemn mission to the good 
Larry that her recreant son might be led back to the true 
Fold? He said the Litany of the Saints that night in ad¬ 
dition to the daily Rosary as a help on his way to a very 
dubious quest. 

Two other leading spirits in the drama about to be 
staged in peaceful Fern Park shared that day the uncer¬ 
tainty and malease of Coggeshall and Larry—Val and 
little Bridget. After early Mass the former occupied him¬ 
self all day in conferring with the sanest of the members 
of the union to determine ways and means for the mor¬ 
row. The last impatient and uneasy visitor gone his 
thoughts flew swiftly to a being who still held for him a 
place that the oasis in the desert holds for the parched 
traveler. He would clear his mind and refresh his soul in 
talk removed from the disturbing struggle. All the more 
determined on this because of a vague, intangible belief 
that in some way or another she seemed of late to be drift¬ 
ing away from his side—a reflection of course that only 
served to intensify, if that were possible, his passion for 
her. 

At this critical juncture their relations were anomalous; 
Bridget was to a certain extent in the confidence of the 
Board, where, had she chosen, she could gain many secrets, 
but up to this point she had volunteered no assistance to 
the strikers. His good sense told him he could hope for 
nothing of that sort honorably—but it hurt him that she 
refused to proffer a counsel that he would have rejected 


FROM. THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 167 

as indecent and unworthy of her—which left him an easy 
prey of misty doubts. He wrestled with his better nature 
and good common sense to assure himself that she could 
not in strict justice be disloyal to her employers, but a 
green eyed monster persisted in intruding itself and shadow¬ 
ing his pacific reflections with the evil suggestion that she 
was animated less by fear of the wrath of the Board when 
detected than regard for—Coggeshall. It was that that 
hurt. With a seared heart he recalled the episode of the 
Firemen’s Ball and her undoubted predeliction since for 
the advice of her employer; it pointed to but one con¬ 
clusion. Still, he had manfully held himself aloof as 
long as possible knowing the terrible effects of a quarrel 
on the eve of a battle that meant so much for those who 
looked to his good judgment and clear brain to extricate 
them from their precarious situation—it would be rank 
treason he told himself to thus obtrude his petty affairs in 
the face of their very existence; he simply couldn’t do it. 
Hence, his mighty struggle alone and unguided; it would 
have stood the supercilious Winthrop Coggeshall in good 
stead to have known the soul of this soft voiced and clear 
eyed Mill operative. 

Not sharing with Craigie and his niece the particular, 
hair splitting niceties in regard to God’s injunction as to 
the method of spending the one day He permitted from 
grilling toil, they took up the usual course, strolling from 
her house by retired ways, being prevented by the mist and 
dampness of the evening from occupying the accustomed 
trysting place, a mossy bank by the tree shaded road, 
choosing instead a walk up by the mill pond and down 
by the now silent and deserted railway right of way. For 
a time they sauntered on in silence, gripping gently the 
hand that brushed the other at intervals, listening to the 
monotonous ding dong of the many church bells, beseech¬ 
ing attendance, and the shrill cries of the poor children 
who, like themselves, were oblivious to an injunction 
against mirth on the Lord’s Day. It would of itself have 
been a thought compelling scene without the added in¬ 
vestment of a look ahead to the coming struggle; reluctantly 
Bridget broke their happy silence. 


168 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Going to walk out in the morning, Val?” He sighed. 

“Yes—an’ I’m awful, awful sorry.” The woman leaped 
to the surface; she laid a gentle and reassuring hand on 
his arm. 

“Never mind, it’s going to come out all right, keep a 
stiff upper lip.” And while he cogitated in thrilled silence 
on the encouragement, her thoughts flashed back to a scene 
in the office the day before, that fairly sickened her. It 
was the recollection of an immense order that had been 
received with a “rush” label that brooked no delay. She 
knew by the covert and excited conference of the Board 
that it was away and beyond the ordinary—a something so 
big that were its import communicated to the strikers it 
would make victory practically certain, for the Craigie 
Mills had a reputation of never having disappointed a 
customer. Let the men hold out a week and that record 
would be broken and with it the Old Man’s heart. Now, 
clinging to the arm of the being she was forced to confess 
she loved best in the whole world, with a love that ob¬ 
literated family affection itself, she was forced to decide 
between love and honor. The hand on his arm trembled 
so violently as to cause him to peer down into her face 
in the growing dusk to read what distressed her—a look 
that she, calling herself a traitor in very bitterness of soul, 
—sought to evade. His honest eyes read her very soul. 
But duty to a Catholic cannot he tempered. 

“ ‘Live in hope, die in despair’ ” he quoted sadly, little 
dreaming what was surging through her mind. 

“Oh, you’ll have to win” she persisted, “you’re united, 
stick it out to the last moment” and then fearful of be¬ 
traying herself stopped, her heart beating furiously at the 
thought of her double dealing. 

“Craigie’ll have a duck fit if we beat him won’t he?” he 
laughed at length; despite her gloom she was forced to 
join him in conjuring a vision of the Old Man knuckling 
down to a union. 

“But” she pleaded finally, “don’t make any mistake 
about the Old Man, he’s really a good old soul.” He 
laughed a jeering laugh of scorn. 

“Aw give us a breeze, Bridgie, him a good soul? Take 
a reef.” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


169 


“But I have certain knowledge that he means for the 
best—” 

“Th’proof o’th’puddin’—th’Mill’s pretty good proof of 
his puddin’ aint it?” he sneered. 

“He is trying to run it just as the mills he worked in 
were run ’ she defended, “can you blame him for not be¬ 
ing able to get out of his rut in his age?” 

“Well, I guess we’ll get him up with th’ band wagon this 
trip” he boasted. “We’ll show him th’ modern way o’ 
runnin’ a mill” he ran on in good humor. 

“But even more than Craigie I’m pinning my hopes to 
the justice of Mr. Coggeshall” at which she felt him stiffen 
perceptibly and walk on very straight for some moments. 

“He’ll do just as old oat cakes wants him to” he snapped 
viciously when he could trust himself to talk. She shook 
the arm to which she clung in reproof. 

“Don’t let any one tell you that” she asseverated hotly, 
“he has both a mind and temper of his own, you ought 
to hear the way he sets the Old Man down at times.” 

“Yes, th’ committee found out his temper all right, all 
right” he responded bitterly. 

“Well, with it all, didn’t he offer the first concessions 
men have ever got in the Mill?” 

“It wasn’t much” trying to justify himself, “still an’ 
all, as yer say—’ 

“Didn’t he even offer you a chance to come back for 
another conference?” She was pertinacious. “Would the 
Old Man and the Board do that much?” 

“That’s right—he did seem like a geezer try in’ t’beat th’ 
game some way—” 

“Didn’t you act like a lot of fools trying to spoil your 
chances by a vote to strike?” she pursued relentlessly. 

“Not me Bridgie” weakly. 

“No, but you’re the leader and you will have to take 
the brunt” with which cold comfort she seemed satisfied 
for a moment. Then, evidently regretting her quick fire 
presentation of the Board’s case, rather sorry in remem¬ 
bering the big order, she sought to comfort him in the way 
every man pretends to dislike—yet cherishes secretly. Foi 
many months after, her apparent defense of Coggeshall 
rose up to tear his soul. 


170 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


‘‘Well’' he said eventually with a squaring of his im¬ 
mense shoulders, “if I’m elected t’take th’blame I’ll do 
it an’ gladly—but I won’t holler.” She squeezed his arm 
again. 

“Then I’ve got a little more comforting news for you” 
she said happily. “You've got a mighty good friend to 
depend on in the battle—of course I’m telling this on the 
strict Q.T.” 

“Sure” he promised. 

“Miss Colquhoun is with you heart and soul,” thus in¬ 
vesting him with the very information the wise super 
would have given his right hand to have gained. 

“Get out!” he contradicted her happily. 

“She told me so herself; she agrees with the hands in 
every point they have raised and even says they didn’t 
ask for enough!” Alas, poor Winthrop! Val let out a 
resounding whoop of joy that the enveloping fog beat 
back on him in ghostly fashion. Then he gave notice of 
his intense satisfaction and joy by stooping over and im¬ 
printing a very fervent kiss on the lips of Miss White— 
who felt herself well repaid even if—even if—but she 
could not bring herself to ponder on her abnegation. 

“Bully f’r her—how I’d like t’shake her fin f’r that!” 
with an evidence of affection that the elegant Miss Grace 
might not have reciprocated. 

“But it is very painful for all that as she doesn’t dare 
argue the question with her uncle—” he broke in angrily. 

“Ah, what’s th’matter with her, doesn't he think th’sun 
rises an’sets on her? Can’t she—?” 

“There’s just the fly in the ointment—she knows she 
can win him over all right, but he would he alone on the 
Board in that case, see? At his age a quarrel with them 
over a matter of policy would be fatal—she knows this and 
while she sympathizes with the hands secretly she will 
work on him only to the extent that the rest of the managers 
agree. But if you just beat Coggeshall, she’ll handle the 
Old Man all right.” 

“Say” in sudden thought, “aint she an’th’super hittin’ 
it up pretty sweet just now?” She shook her head and 
he felt an unaccountable sinking of spirits. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


171 


“I guess they aint eating ice cream out of the same 

spoon yet dryly, “why?” He blundered on awkwardly 

a moment. 

Oh, nothin sullenly, “I just thought she might work 
on him f r us, but I guess well leave him out of it” to 
her relief. 

And yet the information was a veritable heart balm, a 
breath from the piney slopes after the depressing air of 
the last few days, and he drew in deep sighs of relief—it 
was something to know that the crude, ignorant toilers 
were not without a friend somewhere outside their ranks. 
The reflection permitted him to revert to softer topics and 
with his personal affairs uppermost, suddenly he gently 
slipped a powerful arm about her slender waist. 

“I guess we’d ought t’be called pretty soon Bridget, 
oughtn’t we?” he murmured in a tense whisper. She took 
a long time to respond to that innocent inquiry, for com¬ 
plication began to crowd upon complication suddenly. 

“I’m afraid the way things are now Val—the strike—” 
slowly, hesitatingly, “the uncertainty—perhaps we’d bet¬ 
ter postpone talking about it awhile.” She sought to be 
very casual and disinterested, but her lips were quivering 
and her gentle, foolish heart was throbbing painfully. He 
jerked his arm away angrily. 

“I guess you’ve got something else in th’back o’ yer 
head Miss White” he retorted with the old, unreasonable 
spleen cropping out more darkly than ever. 

“But I’m not ready yet, Val” she pleaded with great 
truth, “I’ve got nothing to wear—I haven’t been able to 
do any sewing for months, I’ve been working so hard since 
Mr. Coggeshall gave me the raise—” 

“Sure” with a nasty intonation that struck into her very 
heart. She began to cry softly, tears that didn’t ask sym¬ 
pathy, but hurt nevertheless. 

“Mother hasn’t been well” running on sobbingly, with 
a pathos that almost caused his heart to burst in contri¬ 
tion, while he soundly cursed himself for a dirty brute— 
but which, very man like he was ashamed to acknowledge 
—“Tommy and Joe have both been sick and the money 
I intended to put away for linens went to the doctor—don’t 
you know that?” piteously. 


172 


FROM THE MELTINC POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Sure’’ in a shamed intonation this time, yet not ready 
to get over his sulks and act the man; his mean anger re¬ 
fused to be so easily mollified. 

“It isn’t that I don’t crave to have my own home like 
most girls” she continued, after the pause intended to let 
him square himself, while she tried to talk in the way she 
knew a girl in her circumstance should talk at this time, 
finding it pretty hard with Coggeshall’s cynical advice 
ringing in her ears, a confirmation of his dark hints in 
the very cavalier behaviour of her future lord and master, 
even before she was his. Nor did it lessen the task to 
reflect that she was hiding from the unfortunate fellow 
by her side a knowledge that once comprehended by him 
would serve to hold her up not only to his scorn but to 
the scorn of a whole community. 

Was ever innocence so roundly abused? It all seemed 
horrible and to a certain extent unreal. Fancying herself 
possessed of a guilt laden conscience she tried to argue 
herself into the belief that a marriage now was the worst 
thing she could promise for the youthful leader of the mill 
hands; her brain was teeming with the arrant nonsense in¬ 
stilled by the scheming Coggeshall, sophistry that railed 
at poor and young marriages, as if she could not look about 
her and view the many rich homes, abodes of the devil, 
but garnished with all that education and wealth could ob¬ 
tain. Yet, for some inscrutable reason, she had not yet 
arrived at the common sense wonder that she had even 
listened to him. 

It was of course too late now to reveal the workings of 
her mind to her lover—she perceived too late the trap 
into which she had walked with wide open eyes. He 
wouldn’t admit that there was a sentimental connection 
between the pretty clerk and the aristocratic Coggeshall; 
yet what would he be forced to believe after the strike 
had failed, on learning that she had the very information 
that would have saved the day for the men? Even if she 
became his wife, and the revelation came later, the despic¬ 
able part played by her would render the community un¬ 
tenable for either, she for her perfidy to her own—the 
greatest sin among the Irish-common as it is with them— 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 173 

and he for being the husband of such an unspeakable 
woman. And honest Val—he would hate her out of the 
depths of his love! 

The stroll that began so happily ended in miserable and 
drear silence; he growled at her a curt and forbidding fare¬ 
well without the usual clinging and tender tokens—which 
she missed now the more that she had brought on their 
absence herself—going in rebellious silence to his room 
where he tossed the entire night on his bed, torn by con¬ 
flicting thoughts of his baffled love dreams and chilling 
forebodings for the next day. While she, not to be out¬ 
done in the sordid drama, the hapless victim of herself, 
wet her pillow in weak tears of indecision, her heart now 
throbbing its proud love for the handsome Crosby, now 
thrilling in the dream of a career such as the super had 
painted as the only one fit for one of her inherent virtues. 
Poor little dupe! Not the first to be lured on the rocks 
by the siren, not the first to crush peace in the soul—yet 
loyally blaming no one but herself. 

Just before retiring Coggeshall received the magic answer 
to the mystic telegram sent the night before; coming 
directly on the heels of the dialogue with Larry it swept 
from his brain all recollections of that tender emotion, and 
invested his mind with a satisfied, gratified materialism 
the very antithesis of a soft, family yearning. Very well 
satisfied with himself, the world and the prospects with 
the recalcitrant toilers on the morrow, when the latter 
found themselves confronted by a body of men willing and 
competent to take their places, and humble them in the 
dust scarcely before they had arisen from it. As to the 
leaders of whom he had learned all from Malachi? He 
believed, with a yawn, that he would banish all but Fleet- 
ley —that individual he reserved for future study, in fact 
he was disposed to put him in a position to render him¬ 
self serviceable in better ways. He had taken quite a fancy 
to him. Filled with which elevating thoughts he of all 
concerned in the Craigie Mill strike that night sank to 
blissful, and dreamless slumber. 


174 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The raucous whistle of the Craigie Mill that for years 
had been the reveille of the entire town sounded its hoarse 
warning as usual on Monday, but for the first time in 
year:# there were no sauntering, hurrying,, running forms 
answering from every street and walk, no scuffling, shuf¬ 
fling, ha^ty footsteps resounding through the passageway 
in the office and along the board walk that led to the grim, 
hope repelling doors. Instead, the men—the women by 
tacit consent remaining within doors—loitered quietly down 
the ways to the vicinity of their tread mill, as if cherish¬ 
ing its neighborhood despite its brutality, where they con¬ 
gregated in voluble, noisy groups, smoking, laughing, en¬ 
couraging each other with hopes they hardly felt within 
themselves. 

The populace outside the workers, the self asserted, sup¬ 
posedly better class stood aghast—it was treason! What 
plans had been taken by the Board to checkmate such 
a radical, anarchistic attitude w T ere not revealed, but every 
meddling, inconsequential busy body, the white collared 
and cuffed ninnys chained to a genteel oar in life’s galley, 
cod fish aristocracy with nothing at stake and without the 
manhood to assert itself had there been, proffered the 
usual cheap and nonsensical remedies calculated to curb 
the growing unrest amongst the “ignorant hands.” The 
news spread like wild fire and the town stood agape in 
mingled wonder, dread and apprehension. The rampant 
Presbyterian minister, tickled almost to death that his 
warnings hurled at Craigie had at length borne their bit¬ 
ter fruit, stood and glorified the spunk of the men—taking 
particular pains to express himself in the hearing of the 
Methodist brother who slunk about like a lost soul filled 
with grief for the plight of his “good old friend and bene¬ 
factor, Mr. Craigie.” And got precious little open sym¬ 
pathy for his pains. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


175 


Coggeshall and the Board headed by Craigie, grim and 
silent, were early on hand; the young superintendent now 
felt at liberty to reveal his plans as regarded the importa¬ 
tion of strike breakers and at the bold move the entire 
Board expressed not only its admiration at his excellent 
forethought and prudence, but an exuberant joy in the in¬ 
evitable downfall of the “ungrateful beggars.” Awaiting 
their advent the big order from the west was taken up and 
freely debated, even the presence of Bridget and the open 
receptacled Malachi failing to deter them. The fore-word 
of Saturday was followed by a stronger communication that 
morning, notifying them that if for some reason the order 
could not certainly and promptly be filled at a certain near 
date to wire that at once to enable them to enter into ne¬ 
gotiations with another mill. So sure now was Winthrop of 
the ultimate success of his plans that he merely requested 
a postponement of the answer until noon at which time he 
promised to have a decisive answer ready. Bridget heard 
that even voiced boast and went back to her desk in an 
agony of indecision, her eyes blinded with helpless tears 
as she fought out with her conscience the revealment of this 
potential news to Val. 

Nor was it altogether, as she well knew, the intrinsic 
va^ue of the order that stirred the placid demeanour of 
the Board—it was a call on the pride of service of the 
Craigie Mill, a trumpet call that had never been ignored; 
the strike must be settled and in short order, it must never 
be said of the Craigie Mill that it had failed for any 
reason. She heard all that, she could see the tense, settled 
face of her lover, she heard the muffled roar of the men 
outside bawling at each other jibes and calls up and down 
the street—and in the face of it, with a hand clinging to 
her rosary in her pocket, decided not to reveal the busi¬ 
ness of her employers now that they had imposed a vast 
trust in her honor. Poor mistreated Val—again and again 
his appealing eyes and insistent voice came to her, staring 
and mocking from every corner of the office. 

Suddenly, those inside became aware of a diversion in 
the ranks of the besieging crowd, that, leaving off its aim¬ 
less shuffling about, turned in straggling groups toward 


176 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the station; it was a vague, uncertain movement at first 
but gradually it became the certain move of a mob that 
scurried along in white faced eagerness. Coggeshall 
grinned triumphantly—he knew it bespoke the arrival of 
his allies and he began to conjecture their sensing of it. 

The little acommodation train rolled into Fern Park from 
the City and disgorged a whole load of men with tiny 
packages of clothing and bits of paper wrapped lunch who 
only stood about in irresolute fashion chattering animated¬ 
ly amongst themselves and evidently wondering about the 
lack of a guide to the Mill. In an instant the strikers, 
with many ugly looks and words, began to cluster about 
them as they stared stupidly around, evidently divided be¬ 
tween wonder at the peculiar reception in a strange town 
and fear of the consequences of the illy understood demon¬ 
stration. By reason of a command from the Selectmen— 
due to a tip from the alert Coggeshall—all the town con¬ 
stables were on hand, parading importantly about the 
town’s most recent acquisition and in front of the menacing 
strikers, trying to figure out what was the next thing to be 
done. It only needed a leader to turn the crowd into a 
mob—and a leader for the strike breakers was as badly 
needed. 

The superintendent had fully intended to be at the station 
to greet them, but at the last moment, to his astonishment 
and chagrin, had been outvoted by the “prunes and prism” 
Board that assured him it “showed a lack of dignity ill 
becoming an official of the Craigie Mill—that it was a con¬ 
fession that said Board considered the movement of serious 
import—that dignity must be maintained at any cost.” In¬ 
wardly chafing and blaspheming—despite his unruffled 
exterior—Coggeshall permitted them to talk him out of 
it, sulkily refusing to show that it was really the crest of 
the crisis—a sentiment that solidified as he saw the last 
of the hands disappear madly toward the station. 

Had the complacent and supercilious Board been there 
at the very moment it was felicitating itself on its acumen 
and giving itself over only to consideration of the answer 
to the big order it might have gleaned the fact that the 
men now held the answer locked in their breasts—they 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 177 

might have changed their air of haughty contempt for the 
parcel of “misguided men ' 5 who had so obediently and al¬ 
most obsequiously served them for years. For, with a pre¬ 
ponderance of numbers, the strikers began to grow insolent 
and to clamor for a good excuse to start trouble. A few 
of them still possessed fragments of the bottles purchased 
in the City Saturday night and acted in accordance, some 
were already well inflamed with rebellious and revengeful 
dispositions, but worst of all, into the crowd of honest men 
had surged an element of the idle, vicious type which, 
with absolutely nothing to lose and a startlingly unique 
spectacle to gain, was fairly blood thirsty if one were to 
judge by its yelps—to others—to go in and “clean up on 
’em.” Precisely like the monarchs who gaily bring on 
wars, they would take precious good care not to be at the 
front to fight it. 

Hisses, jeers and insults began to flow thick and fast; 
the sober and fair minded men of the bunch like Val, 
Fleetley and George Day sought to bring order by exhort¬ 
ing and pleading, reinforced by thrusting out vigorously 
the inner circles of hoodlums, but for once even the 
scholarly demands of Fleetley fell on deaf ears. Strange¬ 
ly enough the invaders, seemingly not knowing whether 
to be firm or conciliatory in the presence of the unlooked 
for calamity, maintained a stolid silence as regarded the 
mob, although there was gesticulating and oratory enough 
among themselves. The most determined of the disturb¬ 
ers now began to crowd in, bringing about a very un¬ 
welcome situation as far as the minions of the law were 
concerned, for they suddenly found themselves admirably 
and delicately placed so that a missile, missing them on 
its incipient voyage, could hardly fail to do so on its 
return. 

The priest’s house crowned a sharp declivity overlook¬ 
ing the railroad, and the wonder is that Father O’Connor 
had not already been made aware of the unwonted situa¬ 
tion about the ordinarily sleepy little station; but he had 
come right in from a Mass that attended better than was 
the wont on a week day attested the condition of the 
workers, to give himself over to a review of the collection 
books preparatory to a fresh week’s campaign—although 


178 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

he was already telling himself it was hardly worth while 
in the face of the newest economic catastrophe. Sudden¬ 
ly the door bell jangled and opening the door himself he 
saw Larry Coleman on the top step, out of breath and 
pale, with the look of a man on the verge of distraction, 
too excited for a moment to make himself coherent. 

“F’r th’love o’ God, Father” he finally managed to 
gasp as he clung weakly to the door frame—quite done 
up by his rush up the hill— “c’m down t’ th’ station an’ 
see what ye c’n do—there’ll be murther if ye don't!” 
Without answering him Father O’Connor dodged around 
the corner of the house whence his eager glances swept 
the vicinity of the turmoil. 

“What does it mean Larry?” he cried in amazement; 
Larry made a gesture of disgust and anger. 

“They’ve imported some min t’take th’place o’th’hands 
an’ th’fools at th’office aint here t’pr’tect them (though God 
knows they don’t deserve it—th’blaggards) an’ cut th’head 
o’ me but there’ll be a fracas there in a minit.” The 
young priest needed no urging—with a sorrowful exclama¬ 
tion of dismay he ran back into the house, grabbed his 
hat off the hall rack, to chase Larry down the steep hill 
on the dead run. Nor was he a moment too soon. 

From words (still unanswered by the strike breakers) 
the cowardly mob had worked itself up to missiles and 
sticks, clods and small rocks began to fly over the heads of 
the would be preservers and the illy placed constables, 
many of them finding a target, as the priest could see 
while still far off by the pitiable aspect of the newcomers 
who, with hands to faces and heads, were wiping away the 
blood and filth; every successful bulls’ eye drew from the 
frenzied men yells for further vengeance, and now the 
stones began to fill the air. Father O’Connor was not 
big and burly with ox like strength and bulk, but he was 
wiry enough to displace an ordinary man, and setting him¬ 
self to work, vigorously he squirmed and wriggled his 
way through the outer fringe of rioters, those recognizing 
him quickly giving way and helping push those in front 
to one side to better his leeway. 

A few mighty heaves and pushes and he shot through 
the ring of helpless town officers and lovers of free play 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


179 


that alone kept back the cowards from their prey then 
panting, disheveled, flushed with anger and shame he turn¬ 
ed on them and being instantly recognized the noisy howls 
died down into sullen hisses and jeers. 

“A pretty exhibition this’' he cried at the top of his 
voice and thrust protesting arms heavenward, making the 
meanest shrink in abasement at his dramatic attitude, “a 
pretty exhibition this” he repeated reproachfully, “is this 
the way you Catholics keep the promise made me at Mass 
yesterday?” In him the overjoyed strike breakers recog¬ 
nized a ray of hope and a bulwark of defense and they 
vented their joy and relief in happy cries. At the first 
jangle of glee from them he turned on them in astonish¬ 
ment. “You are Canadians?” he asked in French, and 
the mystery of their non resistance was solved in their 
native voiced chorus of assent. 

“But what does it all mean?’’ from one evidently the 
foreman as he stepped forward—then perceiving in the 
make up of the man his character every hat was respect¬ 
fully doffed while they bowed their greetings. 

“There has been a strike declared at the Craigie Mill— 
these are the strikers—didn’t you know that?” in French. 
There was a mingled storm of protest and regret. 

“Non, non—par bleu—mais non /” fairly shrieked the 
leader; with cackling volubility they declared their in¬ 
nocence of the circumstances, calling on the good God and 
His Blessed Mother as witnesses of their sincerity. Father 
O’Connor finally managed to set the air on their impetuous 
flight of verbality and they consented to be quiet. “We 
were told they were short of hands because of sickness 
during a rush of orders and we were promised extra pay 
to come here for just one week—is it not so?” and they 
howlingly assented. The earnestness of the speaker made 
itself felt amongst the strikers even although they could not 
comprehend a word passing between them in a language 
the priest had learned when studying at Three Rivers, 
Canada. 

“It is a black lie concocted to lure you here to break 
this strike; these men have just grievances and are 
protesting against the methods too long in vogue in 
the Mill—it is manifestly a trick of the new superinten- 


180 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


dent.” This suspicion quickly ripened into a certainty 
once the nature of their employers was explained, together 
with the secret plans evolved for their guidance. For¬ 
getting the bleak reception they had received their emo¬ 
tion became one of hot anger at the scurvy trick played 
on them. 

“Back—not a moment shall we remain” declared the 
foreman; “we have no desire to interfere with these men” 
which was taken up and loudly confirmed by the rest 
whose one desire now was a return to their native heath— 
still intact. In a moment the good news was communi¬ 
cated to the strikers by Father O’Connor who, undergo¬ 
ing a swift reversal in form, wanted to greet as brothers 
the individuals for whose gore they had thirsted a moment 
before, making the welkin ring with cheers of joy in out¬ 
witting, by the interference of the priest, the underhanded 
Coggeshall. 

“I am glad to hear you say that” cried Father O’Connor 
joyfully as he proceeded to shake hands all around—some 
of them acted as if they would like to kiss him—over¬ 
joyed at this apparently easy settlement of what not only 
threatened to be a disgraceful blot on the fair name of the 
town, but a murderous brawl. “I am animated by no mere 
desire to interfere one sidedly in the affairs of these men 
and their employers, but I assure you it would be doing an 
act of grave injustice—one for which you would have to 
answer to God perhaps—in preventing these men from 
obtaining their just meed.” He need add no more—the 
word of a priest was enough for these practical Catho¬ 
lics. 

The crowd was still in the midst of self gratulation and 
felicitation, madly shaking hands and slapping backs in 
delirium over the victory looked upon as being already 
won, the only disappointed ones being the wicked inter¬ 
meddlers, chafing for being cheated out of the well earned 
spectacle of wreck and slaughter, when an agitation on 
the outer edge accompanied by a thrusting aside and au- 
thorative flinging about announced the approach of another 
carrying evidences of vital interest in the melee. Even as 
Father O’Connor was counselling with the Canadians as 
to their future course and the best method of withdraw- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


181 


al he felt himself seized by the arm and flung about as if 
a giant had pounced on him—then he was face to face 
with superintendent Coggeshall, boiling, his eyes fairly 
blazing in their sockets. 

Malachi, a quiet and happy observer of the actions of the 
mob that could mean nothing but its downfall, together with 
that of the hated Valentine, had possessed his black soul 
in jubilant patience and equanimity until the fracas went 
the wrong way with the whirlwind entrance of the priest, 
when he deemed it his duty to notify his superior of the 
imminent peril of his well laid plans. Coggeshall re¬ 
sponded on the run; for the first time since the chance 
meeting in the cobbler shop they took occasion to face 
each other for converse, the priest calm, dignified and un¬ 
ruffled—the other, panting wrathily, the color coming and 
going in his smooth cheeks, a thin line of white along his 
nostrils betokening the illy repressed rage that was gnaw¬ 
ing at his heart. 

“Since when” he bit off savagely, his face thrust to with¬ 
in a few inches of the priest’s, “since when have you been 
appointed arbitrator of the differences between the Mill 
owners and these ungrateful men?” Father O’Connor, 
without abating his steady scrutiny in the least, took his 
own sweet time to answer that insolently intoned query, 
calmly ignoring the frantic appeals from the crowd to 
“bat him one in the eye” and “knock his head off” inter¬ 
spersed with the pathetic calls to “take a poke at him 
Father,” accompanied by hisses and jeers that he caused 
to cease with a commanding gesture. 

“I came here” he said suavely, considering the insulting 
attitude of his inquisitor, “to save from a mob the unfor¬ 
tunate strangers the hospitable Mill owners had consigned 
to it—a moment more I fear and murder would have been 
done.” 

“Consummated by the craven crew you foster and en¬ 
courage” he sneered shrilly. 

“Oh no” with a quiet smile, still determined to keep his 
temper although the demands from the crowd to take 
summary vengeance were repeated until he was forced to 
desist in his talk with Coggeshall to quell them, “the fight¬ 
ing developed with the presence of the usual trouble makers 


182 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


in every crowd—your importation could not make it self 
understood either—” 

“Although I see you have made them understand you ’ 
he ground out in waxing anger. 

“I merely rehearsed the actual conditions.” 

“And what have they decided?” 

“That having been lied to in the beginning” at which 
truculent explosion the crowd took heart that he 
might yet “soak” the super, “they no longer care to be the 
victims of the chicanery of the Craigie Mill Board—and its 
crafty, velvet pawed superintendent” a pert designation 
that sent the crowd into a paroxysm of delight and exite- 
ment. Coggeshall now condescended a sneering laugh. 

“Of course we lied to them, why shouldn’t we? If we 
were dealing with intelligent and honorable opponents” and 
he purposely raised his voice that the insulting implication 
might be heard and understood by all, “we would work 
on the level—in this case we act to suit ourselves alone—” 

“Then should blame yourselves alone at not being 
suited—” 

“Haven't we the right to ask others to take the place of 
those who refuse to avail themselves of the working 
opportunities?” 

“Most assuredly, I grant that, but with restrictions—and 
the luring of innocent men to be the victims of violence is 
a big restriction. I am not in favor of this strike, I 
counselled against it, but it affords no valid excuse for 
you to be insulting in your estimate of honest and faithful 
emyloyes.” His response was an ugly laugh, insulting 
enough to provoke a blow. 

“Of course it was wise and honorable to reject my offers 
looking toward a compromise?” Father O’Connor fixed 
him with a look. 

“Honorable? You use that word? I dare you to deny 
that you engineered this move so as to force the men into 
a strike to thus crush and humiliate them in the incip- 
iency of your superintendency!” Despite his well trained 
manner Coggeshall could not entirely repress a start at 
this center shot and prescient revelation—he faltered an 
instant, tried to brazen it out—then under the accusing eye 
of the young priest, broke; the crowd set up a roar of 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 183 

appreciation of the hot duel and again urged on the de¬ 
fender to personal violence. 

I refuse to discuss further our secret affairs with one of 
your impractical stripe,” he countered lamely, then 
suddenly thrusting his face almost to the other’s he snarled, 

tell these Canucks the work is ready for them—double 
the original wages offered”—the crowd gasped— “show 
how much of the town’s business interests you have at heart 
—I dare you!” It was now Father O’Connor’s turn to 
laugh. 

“They have already decided—have you not?” he queried 
in French. 

‘7/5 sont eii greve ”—“A strike” muttered the leader, and 
“greue” the rest muttered and growled. 

“I made no effort to influence them one way or the other 
—I stated the case—” 

“But how in the name of the devil” and almost smiled 
at the pained look overspreading the priest’s face at that 
mean utterance, “are they to decide in the presence of this 
gang of lynch law men? What won’t a man say with the 
halter about his neck? Tell them to go to the Mill to work 
and see whether I am right or not” almost pleadingly. 
Again Father O’Connor turned to the impatient Canadians. 

“The superintendent” he said gently, “desires me to say 
that if you go to the Mill he will make it well worth your 
while—” but the storm of vehement protests that greeted 
that needed no interpreter to convey their answer— 
they were now fairly howling in their desire to give up. 
The crowd took it up with joyous good will; delirious 
cries of mockery and hate burst from them, effectually 
balking every effort of the white faced Coggeshall to make 
himself heard. His face slowly resumed a deep scarlet— 
chagrin, baffled rage, but worst of all wounded pride, strove 
to assert themselves in his handsome face; he bit his lips 
to restrain the seething hate and with a sorrowful pang the 
poor priest saw the blood trickle under the grip of his white 
teeth. 

“I plainly see it is too late to undo your cursed work” 
he grated as he brushed the blood stain from his chin, “but 
you and I are to meet again—don’t forget that!” 

“Under happier auspices I trust Mr. Coggeshall” in 


184 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

sympathetic accents that sank into the soul of the super, 
and, atheist though he might be, he acknowledged a thrill 
of something akin to awe at the dignified and placating 
air of this young ecclesiastic. “I hope it shall portend 
the bettering of the condition of these honest and unfor¬ 
tunate people.” 

“Unfortunate?” he echoed. “Aye” he jeered nastily, 
“should the Mill decide to close down—devilish unfor¬ 
tunate for them—and you! ” 

“Come—let us include Mr. Craigie and the flinty heart¬ 
ed Board—if they forego this opportunity of squaring 
themselves with their Maker for the injustice of years.” 
Coggeshall snapped his fingers disdainfully; he only 
sought now to get away from the throng whose every word 
and look were subversive of discipline and respect. 

“I might suggest” as he turned away through the lane 
that was accorded him in sullen silence by the men, “that 
if you exert yourself in their spiritual behalf as well 
as the Mill has in their earthly, you will be assured a 
decenter congregation to which to preach the lessons of 
duty laid down by the gentle Nazarene” gleeful over the 
effect of that insinuation, “and don’t fail to remember 
what the poet said about people rushing in where angels 
fear to tread”; then he was gone. 

So much of the danger was over, and counselling the 
men to go to their homes and busy themselves with house¬ 
hold affairs until the committee called on them again 
Father O’Connor returned to his house; long after he left 
he could hear the jubilant shouts of the men the loudest 
of all being those who were clamorous in the beginning 
of the failure of the strike—evincing in the swift revul¬ 
sion of feeling a confidence their wiser leaders refused 
to share. 

The ill news preceded Coggeshall to the office, which 
he sought with no effort to conceal his downcast bear¬ 
ing; Bridget heard it and with a swift overbearing surge 
of joy united to a sensation of despondencv that she had 
not taken her share in the battle by a hint of the big order. 
But that was useless now and she rigidly forced herself 
to the conclusion that make or break she had done right 
in remaining loyal to those who placed implicit trust in 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


185 


her. She felt all the better when she saw the crest fallen 
superintendent stride into the office to take his medicine 
from the Board, grimly set to hear his report. Whatever 
his faults and whatever his attitude toward the workers 
generally, he had been, on the surface at least, nothing 
but kindly and forbearing with her. Her spirit was im¬ 
bued with the faithful, hero worshipping love of the Celt 
and as she had chosen to take him to her heart for her 
service, she resolved to protect his interests in so far as 
lay within the reach of her gentle power. Even Val and 
her own family faded in the rosy glow of fealty mani¬ 
fested toward a character that was not (although unknown 
to her) worthy a real kind thought in her pure heart. 


186 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The jubilant crowd of Mill hands thinned, sifted and 
swirled, finally to idle homeward to announce to the anx¬ 
ious hearts there the results of the first test of strength of 
the newly born union and the ancient regime; to everyone 
it was patent that the secret move of the super had been 
a flash in the pan—failing in his deeply laid plans there 
could be nothing for him now to save his face but a resump¬ 
tion of negotiations looking to a swift adjustment of their 
grievances. It only remained for them to sit back patient¬ 
ly and await his next move. 

The crestfallen Coggeshall, outwardly cool and con¬ 
temptuously oblivious to the taunting attitudes and swag¬ 
ger of the hands he met, while inwardly a seething vol¬ 
cano of not only chagrin at his downfall, but unutterable 
hate and thirst for revenge on its immediate cause, walked 
quickly and soberly back to the office. That his well 
concocted scheme and system of contending with the strik¬ 
ers had been foiled by the simple expedient of an appeal 
through the religious leanings of the men, rankled. Even 
the shock of his pride in having to acknowledge to the 
Board that he must give over to them future ways of 
campaigning shrank to the size of a mere incident in the 
affairs when compared with the malignant, blasphemous 
contemplation of the victory won over him. 

The Board had heard it all—via the blue in the face 
Malachi, really as chagrined as Coggeshall if the truth 
were only known—and he found it sitting grimly silent 
in the main office; he looked for the inevitable “I-told- 
you-so” as he entered with the usual swinging, care free 
stride and flung his hat on the rack—but recrimination 
didn’t materialize, so dropping into a chair he thrust his 
thumbs into the arm holes of his vest while his keen 
glances ranged from one mask like face to another. The 
survey completed to his satisfaction, he broke the grue¬ 
some silence. 

“Well gentlemen” with no abatement of the precise. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


187 


scholarly inflection that distinguished his intercourse, “my 
resignation is to be had for the asking.” The leathern 
faced Prugh looked at the foxy Pmnton who passed the 
look on unblemished to the smug Carter—after which all 
hands united in a look at the imperturbable Craigie—very 
hard—as he sat in his usual attitude when in deep study, 
his elbows on the arms of his chair and his chin nested 
in his interlaced fingers. He challenged the young man 
from beneath shaggy eyebrows. 

“We’re not ready t’discard th’auld shoon ’till we’ve tried 
th’new” he said dryly; the others nodded at each other 
just as if that were the very thoughts in their heads and 
they were grateful to him for having taken the word out 
of their mouths. Coggeshall swung back and forth in his 
swivel chair and calculated his chances with lightning like 
rapidity. 

“Do I understand that you merely await the coming of 
my successor to accept the resignation—” 

“We contemplate no successor” broke in the Old Man 
decidedly and the signals of assent again flashed from 
Prugh and Bunton and Carter—only not quite so radiantly 
as before. Coggeshall elevated politely surprised eye¬ 
brows at that entirely unlooked for declaration, then sought 
the confirmation in the sour regards of the rest.” 

“Yet” with a short laugh, “I don’t flatter myself that 
I’m an all wool and a yard wide success.” 

“You may safely leave that to us” Craigie ran on 
solemnly—in much the same tone he would have employed 
in describing the doubtful virtues of the thing lying stark 
and cold in the next room, under the flowers and candles. 
“The Mill is still here and the biggest order of the year 
at hand with the wool hardly off the backs of the sheep. 
We look to you to open the sluice way.” Despite his 
studied assumption of unconcern the features of the super 
flushed hotly at this signal and generous word of appro¬ 
bation—it was gratifying to realize that his superiors 
regarded the abortive effort at taming the men with such 
a complacent mien; it afforded him the chance (at first 
seemingly hopelessly lost) not only to make good in the 
next battle, but—better still—the opportunity to wreak his 
awful vengeance on all concerned in his debacle. 


188 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“So then*' with a triumphant and glad note in his voice, 
an intonation that won him his few friends, “I shall call 
another meeting of the committee to discuss the issues 
from another angle.” Out of the tail of his eye he ap¬ 
praised the effect of that hint on the rest of the Board, 
but that august body, after an equally covert and shrewd 
microscopic examination of the Old Man’s rugged features, 
merely bowed their deep and grave acquiescence to what¬ 
ever plan might be formulated that tended to restore their 
dividends and salve their souls with plasters of lucre. At 
which point Grace, manifesting less concern in her beautiful 
countenance than seemed consistent with such a dire ca¬ 
tastrophe, entered, and after formal greetings her uncle 
closed the seance to accompany her home. 

“Let there be no more lost time” was his curt and 
commanding dismissal of the unpleasant affair. Winthrop 
and Grace came face to face again in the narrow hallway 
and it cut him to note her bland mien. 

“Well, what do you think of it?” he demanded almost 
irritably; she flashed back a smile that under pleasanter 
auspices would have dazzled him, but now plainly nettled 
—it contained nothing of regret either for his cropper or 
the Mill’s loss of prestige. 

“I foresee out of it a lightening of the clouds that 
have hung too long over our Mill” she responded earnest¬ 
ly; “I don’t consider myself a traitor to my uncle’s in¬ 
terests in expressing my gratification that these patient 
people have not been crushed!” Poor Winthrop Cogges- 
hall—the proud look in her eyes and the generous tones 
of her voice, (enhanced a million times that they were 
employed in defence of the down trodden)—simply chain¬ 
ed him forever to her chariot. He sought resolutely to 
reflect her radiant smile, but there was a deep smart that 
came more from her un-loverlike demeanour than her de¬ 
fection from the ranks of the self elected great. 

“Of course” he explained in a low tone, but a meaning 
one, “you realize that this is but the skirmish—the real 
battle will come now that the lines are drawn.” She 
whipped her skirt with her sunshade handle a few mo¬ 
ments, looking off in the mean time with a light he didn’t 
particularly fancy in her beautiful eyes, seeming to ponder 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


189 


a reply that, expressive of her inner sentiments, could not 
be construed into open rebellion against him and the 
Mill methods. 

“I rather thought” she said finally and slowly, in a 
voice that was a perfect accompaniment of her looks, 
“that your commission comprehended a further concilia¬ 
tion of the hands?” and favored him with a look that sent 
his pulse bounding. 

“Perhaps” recovering, “you would like me to hand the 
Mill over to them!” with a slight sulkiness—which she 
cooly ignored. 

“Quite unnecessary” coldly; he quickly shifted to meet 
this fresh breeze. 

“I have the Board's permission to deal with them just 
as I see fit” and they exchanged a long, studied glance. 

“Be careful” still swishing the sunshade, “that you do 
not take too much for granted and put a wrong inter¬ 
pretation on the humor of uncle Hugh” then as if in 
sudden, new thought, “There are to be no reprisals?” It 
might have been intended for a query—then again it 
might not—anyway it set Coggeshall to probing the depths 
of the dusky orbs the while the color came and went in 
her perfect cheeks—as if disturbed at the owner’s temer¬ 
ity—he in internal profane disquiet, while trying to de¬ 
cipher her manner. 

“None whatever” rewarded by a lightning flash of joy, 
but before he could pursue his quarry with a flood of 
apology and explanation, the Old Man bustled out of the 
office. She returned his cool bow with one several degrees 
nearer the bulb, and following her uncle to the street 
gained the team of blacks impatiently shaking their heads, 
with a great jingling of silver mounted harness, testing the 
strength of the fuming coachman’s arms in their mad de¬ 
sire to be off. 

Watching her as she was swept out of sight, Coggeshall 
relegated the Mill situation to the shades of oblivion, while 
he rechewed that conversation, twisting the words, shad¬ 
ings and phases of it into every shape that promised salve 
to his wounded soul and at least an appromixation of in¬ 
terest in his conduct. But the sanest conclusion at which 
he could arrive was the certainty that no one was likely 


190 


FROM THE MELTINC POT INTO THE MOLD 


to find favor in her eyes who crossed her line of sympathy 
for the meanest striver after social justice, a stand he 
knew so totally out of joint with the preconceived no¬ 
tions prevalent with the women idling away the wealth 
wrung from the poor, that it gave him pause. A few 
months ago, he would have been perfectly willing to thrust 
her into the balance against him, that he might profit by 
her confusion at his triumph over her beloved toilers, but 
now—his selfish soul demanded that he assume a more 
tolerant air toward the unfortunate proletariat. In other 
words, Winthrop Coggeshall, fruit of selfishness and prod¬ 
uct of selfish philosophy, was ready and willing to throw 
over a pleasant career for the pleasanter one of woman 
hunting—the Mill could go to the lower depths of perdi¬ 
tion before he would let it be the means of jeopardizing 
his standing with the beautiful, the ravishing, the glorious 
Grace Colquhoun. 

He dispatched Malachi—who went the more joyfully 
that he hoped for a resumption of the riot—to tell the 
committee that it could come at its earliest convenience 
to talk matters over again; pending their arrival he made 
preparations for an immediate resumption of work. The 
big order was accepted unreservedly, with assurances that 
it was already under way, giving every indication to the 
office force that he considered the strike at an end. Bridget, 
who had put in most of the morning saying her Rosary 
alternately for Val and the success of the strike, looked 
up at him in timid hope as he sank wearily into a seat 
near her desk. 

“Are you going to grant all the demands?” she made 
bold finally to enquire: he regarded her keenly a moment, 
trying to sense the import of that query, then shook his 
head decidedly. 

“No- -no more than I have to” rather abstractedly; “of 
course there are some things we would have granted eventu¬ 
ally, anyway” in smooth evasion (which she understood) 
“and there are some things we can compromise on—if 
they are not too stubborn” as if he were not apt to be. 
Then he swung around to confront her. 

“Bridget” he said shortly, “you knew about that big 
order, didn t you? He began to note her great prettiness 
now as she blushed quickly. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


191 


“Yes, sir, I saw Collamore when he opened the tele¬ 
gram.” 

“Didn’t it ever occur to you to tell it to Valentine?” 
She began to tremble at the implied menace in word and 
voice. 

“Yes, sir—but I would just as soon have taken the 
package of pay envelopes out of the safe, Mr. Coggeshall,” 
earnestly, at which his face softened for the first time that 
day. 

“I concede you that” he said quietly; “I look on it 
as your supreme test; I now believe that the Craigie Mill 
has no more devoted employe.” 

“Yes, sir—although I don’t want to be tested that way 
again” with a piteous intonation that went to his heart. 

“Right—although I don’t exactly know what to make 
of you” with a slight smile. “Now let us have a surer 
understanding. In the very nature of things you must 
come in contact with just such situations every day in 
this office—you must confess your loyalty to us or your 
sweetheart—” 

“Oh, Mr. Coggeshall” with brimming eyes—but he held 
up a restraining hand. 

“You must make a choice at once. Val, while a very 
fine fellow and capable workman, has chosen to take the 
place of Mannix—” her sudden wince at that, her stifled 
gasp did not escape him— “It is for his interests as well 
as your own —your own, mind —that you throw off a 
chance of embarrassment by not encouraging him too 
strongly in the future and thus render yourself under 
suspicion with us.” It was a cruel blow, it was a cowardly 
alternative to offer, but he was in no humor to entertain 
refined sentiments for the class that had hurt his. Poor 
innocent little Bridget White was merely a step on his way 
up to hitter revenge, and if it hurt her to be trod on she 
must accept it uncomplainingly—she had deliberately set 
herself there. 

“I think” she said faintly after a long pause, “I know 
where my duty lies” which she did not, however, and 
which he knew she did not. 

“Precisely.” And then he set about finishing the task 
he had started on their first meeting. “You must now 



192 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

realize the futility of hanging back with this class of 
people. There is a future ahead of you with us; if you 
chose to tie to Crosby we will be forced to look upon you 
with suspicion—self preservation you know—while for 
you there will be nothing better than a life union with a 
man who if he perseveres in his present path will shortly 
be discredited in Mill work” darkly. “He will soon find 
another more congenial mate” carelessly, yet not liking 
the sudden distressed blanching of her features at that 
dread possibility— “so it behooves you to remain in the 
situation for which you are best fitted. Do you think you 
catch my meaning?” in well assumed sympathy. She hesi¬ 
tated a moment in down cast cogitation, striving to repress 
the surge of new emotions aroused by his peculiar in¬ 
timations. 

“Yes, sir—I—I think I do” she stammered at length 
and would have gone on but for receiving a sudden sum¬ 
mons from the bookkeeper. Coggeshall almost laughed 
aloud as she disappeared—his face wore a certain expres¬ 
sion that (a mingling of anger and deceit) was hard to 
qualify exactly, but the soft words he uttered in soliloquoy 
offered a pretty fair clue to the trend of his thoughts. 

“My dear Miss Grace” he murmured, “I call heaven to 
witness that I keep my promise of ‘no reprisals’—neverthe¬ 
less, there are other ways of choking a dog beside feed¬ 
ing him melted butter.” Which, it may well be believed 
augured ill for a love affair between two of the Mill 
hands. 

Evening was drawing on before the committee could be 
secured and called to the office, eager and anxious to be 
given the signal to resume its place in the wearying grind 
of the Mill; the members filed into the office surrounded 
by a totally different atmosphere from that which they 
had inhaled in the first instance, psychologically and 
physically—the latter contributed by Day who had been 
imbibing since morning. Poor weak George, rugged mind¬ 
ed, lion hearted—but at the mercy of this one failing that 
rendered him totally incapable of coherent thought at the 
time when his mind should have been as strong as his 
body was vigorous. Coggeshall instinctively noted the 
changed attitude and politically ignored it, firmly believing 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


193 


his superior talents equal to the defense of the Mill, still 
confident of driving a shrewd bargain with the untutored 
hands, even while conceding them the advantage of being 
engaged in a struggle for their very existence. Overlook¬ 
ing their air of confidence—bearing the appearance of an 
insult from the fuddled George which the rest sought to 
tone—the super set himself rigorously to upholding the 
honor of his employers. 

“Now men” he began carelessly, glancing smoothly from 
one beaming countenance to another, “by reason of being 
deprived of the men whom I intended to use temporarily 
in running the Mill, I have, with the full consent of the 
Board—” as if that made any difference to the listeners— 
“determined to reopen negotiations. I will concede that 
you have won the first point” as if in a burst of confidence, 
that deceived no one, “but see no reason why that should 
debar frank debate in the matter.” At this, Day, who had 
been weaving solemnly in his chair, opened his mouth 
for a sarcastic rejoinder, but Val thrust himself in a 
head. 

“Cheese it George” he snapped, “let me talk first” which 
caused George to subside sulkily and slip gradually down 
in his chair until the back of his neck seemed to represent 
his center of gravity. Coggeshall saw some hope in having 
Val to contend with. “You remember the old terms Mr. 
Coggeshall” with a respectful air that succeeded in anger¬ 
ing the super, however. “We have no authority to go 
back on a single grievance.” Winthrop nodded rather 
bleakly. 

“Of course not an out and out rejection, that’s under¬ 
stood, but a diplomatic reshaping of them, something of 
that nature, eh?” tentatively. George not being able to 
assimilate all that at once thought he could improve the 
situation by chipping in judicially. 

“Th’reso—reso—lutions is square” he affirmed thickly 
and with a vacant stare, “An’there ain’ t’be no trimmin’ 
o’ them, d’yer twig?” with a gurgling hiccup. 

“Oh well” Fleetley put in amiably, “there’s nothing so 
perfect it can’t be gilded. For instance now” with a mildly 
insinuating manner whose import was not lost on the keen¬ 
ly observing super “how would it do for you to let us 



194 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


have your very best proposals?” That innocent little 
query changed the map at once—it put the wily Coggeshall 
on the defensive—and he didn’t relish it if one might 
judge by the illy concealed change of manner. 

“We are willing to grant the increases for one thing” 
stiffly, at which George, wiggling up from the end of his 
spine, spat copiously into the saw dust filled cuspidor and 
uttered something between a cough and a growl. 

“So fur so good” precisely as if it had been offered for 
his especial reviewing—but the super didn’t even con¬ 
cede him a look. 

“Later in the season we will grant the shorter hours—” 
when he paused and looked vacantly out the window. 

“At the same scale?” from Val; he nodded. 

“At the same scale.” 

“Then why not at once?” He wagged his head in pa¬ 
tient negation. 

“Because of the unlooked for contracts piling in on us 
it would necessitate the refusal of some of them—and you 
men don’t want the Craigie Mill to fall down on a job do 
you?” with subtle, crafty appeal to a pride he and his 
class did absolutely nothing to engender. They shook 
their heads—all except George who was trailing too far 
from the procession of thought to manifest even that much 
interest; however, he opened his mouth again to reply 
when Val forestalled him. 

“You remember Shea’s argument against the continued 
long strain of hours we’re puttin’ in Mr. Coggeshall?” He 
remembered perfectly. 

“T myself have evolved a plan to offset that” he said 
in a tone meant to win their approbation for his con¬ 
descension—but didn’t—; “It is my intention to grant 
a half day a week, in rotation, to every employe. This in 
connection with the Saturday afternoon off should receive 
favorable consideration I think, don’t you?” with more of 
anxiety than he cared to reveal. The Committee looked 
from one to the other reflectively—that is all except George 
who was so industriously engaged in looking down his nose 
he appeared to have succeeded in mesmerizing himself. 
But their looks reflected the thought that the idea was 
plausible. In the few minutes that Coggeshall allowed 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


195 


them to digest it before debate, he amused himself in 
watching George’s futile efforts to focus his mixed brain 
and escape the drowsiness of liquor rapidly stealing over 
features openly sneering, when they were not convulsed 
with foolish grins. 

“I am, for one, in favor of reporting that back to the 
men with our approval” Val said finally after the rest had 
indicated a readiness to have an opinion rendered. The 
super gravely masked his feelings, but into his breast 
there came a fierce, crazy jubilation that he was succeed¬ 
ing with his own plans, it rather tempered the chagrin of 
the morning’s fiasco. 

“As for a minimum age for children” and he weighed 
his words well, even moderating his voice to its most 
enchanting accents that he might curry favor as it were, 
“as for the minimum age” he repeated as if to make sure 
that his premises were comprehended, “I regret as deeply 
as any of you men—for I too have a man’s heart within 
me and no red blooded man can be insensible to the sor¬ 
rows and tears of these innocent little ones—I honestly 
regret I say, that the time is not yet arrived for the aboli¬ 
tion of the jot and tittle they contribute to the welfare 
of a Mill. The little that they do can be done by them as 
well as by a man or woman at a sufficiently decreased 
scale to make their employment absolutely necessary to 
run a mill under the present brutal system of economic 
competition!” He finished with a vigor that left no doubt 
as to his sincerity on that score at least. So that he was 
hardly prepared for the distinct scowl of disapproval on 
the scholarly features of Fleetley. 

“Your syllogism is wrong” he answ r ered with as near an 
approach to bitterness as his tones had yet carried; “your 
first premise should be ‘Their pitiful contribution is ab¬ 
solutely necessary to the paying of vast dividends to the 
stock holders.’ ” Coggeshall regarded him coldly while 
poor George in trying to jack himself into a more digni¬ 
fied posture lost his former slight advantage and slipping 
helplessly down rested precariously on his heels and the 
bald spot on the back of his head. 

“As you please” incisively and frigidly, “I hope the day 
will come when neither women nor children will toil in 


196 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

factories—blit that happy day will be postponed beyond 
our generation” with grim finalty. 

“Which is precisely what makes the issue between the 
toilers and the owners” Fleetley went on doggedly; “you 
can’t argue with men any longer that a mere bare existence 
is what the Creator intended in the law of earning the 
food by the sweat of the brow—He must have meant an oc¬ 
casional luxury and by heavens the toiler must have it!” 
His voice rose to an angry roar which mingled with an 
emphatic bang on the desk aroused such a clatter in the 
quiet office that George, under the impression that some¬ 
one outside was creating a scene, growled sleepily, “Hey, 
stop yer throwin’ ”. 

“I understand” Coggeshall pursued as smoothly as ever, 
“that some such argument is at the bottom of all the 
growing unrest—but remember men, you can’t lift your¬ 
self by your boot straps, you can lift and be lifted, but 
you cant lift yourselves /” He finished with his quiet laugh 
—and it was pretty near a sneer. 

“Yet is rather possible” from Fleetley, “that in lifting 
up to the owners we may drag them down” significantly. 
Coggeshall waved that aside impatiently.” 

“The veriest bosh Fleetley. Every mill owner in New 
England—and I know whereof I speak—stands ready to 
withdraw his stock in New England Mills the instant child 
labor is abolished—and do you know why?” pointing a 
finger directly at Fleetley. At this all leaned forward into 
a more confidential ring, even George who, desirous to re¬ 
trieve his fast dimming fortunes, braced himself and there¬ 
by favored the assemblage with the rich tincture of a 
rum breath. 

“Oh, yes” Fleetley answered with a light laugh, “Cotton 
mills are springing up all over the south and unable to 
get darkies to work in them as they worked on the planta¬ 
tions, they are hiring children—an ideal situation for 
some of our capitalists— ideal!” he concluded bitterly. 
Coggeshall could not restrain an admiring look for that 
revelation. 

“The situation in a nut shell” falling back in his chair 
where he glared the odorous George back into his, “our 
high priced operatives will drive capital out of our mills 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 197 

—then what becomes of all you skilled operatives?” with 
a. look of cold triumph. “Do you Irish and English and 
Scotch—men who have fled just such conditions in the 
old country—want to go down there and work your heads 
off for the price of a drink of whiskey?” Which pro¬ 
voked a decided negative from all except George, who 
only grasping the concluding word, imagined that it pre¬ 
dicated the long delayed “shout” and so answered bright¬ 
ly, “Sure!” 

“We have no time to argue that now” Fleetley went 
on thoughtfully, “for it is unending, so I will merely ad¬ 
mit that I agree with you that the time for the absolute 
eradication of child labor has not yet arrived; factories 
in the south not only open up a haven for investment away 
from home, but present a complication that requires na¬ 
tional regulation—and we are beginning to slip away from 
national thinking again I fear. Only by educating parents 
to realize that their one hope lies in keeping their off¬ 
spring from the crime that has debased themselves can we 
hope for a solution of the problem—it is sheer nonsense to 
try to settle the question by strikes and lock outs.” Cogge- 
shall, in the gathering gloom, intently studied the fine 
profile of the speaker, now as one dreaming visions, 
gathering his material from his study of men and women, 
presenting the rapt, beatific countenance of a Francis 
Xavier or a Peter the Hermit. 

“There’s where you hit the nail on the head again” 
conceded the super finally, “and now I see no reason why 
you should not go back to work in the morning, do you?” 
not exactly an appeal nor an order, but a sort of disinclina¬ 
tion to relinquish his position of commander, which was 
perfectly sensed and appreciated by the fine souled Fleet- 
ley when he looked at Coggeshall again. He was the 
first to break the long, embarrassing silence. 

“If the hands accept this report of ours” he said “we 
may assure them that there is to be no prejudice 
harbored toward any one because of his participation in 
any manner in the strike?” with a significant earnestness 
that somehow impressed Coggeshall as being entertained 
for others than himself. He nodded a cold assent as they 
arose to go—all lending a helping hand to the elevation of 
the now limp Day. 


198 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“While I remain as superintendent there shall not be a 
thing done to indicate that our former pleasant relations 
have ever been disturbed” with an assumption of heartiness 
and frankness that could not but inspire confidence. 

After getting George to his feet, with an indication that 
the meeting was over, he began to resent it as an aspersion 
on his dignity as an arbitrator, arguing it all the way out 
the office and up the street where Val charitably steered 
his wobbly footsteps, with a resultant burst of tears on his 
door step at the sameful way in which Coggeshall had 
treated him—mercifully oblivious to the fact that the super 
hadn’t addressed a single word to him. 

The super, sunk in his mingled reflections, sat in the 
dusky office until Larry appeared with his saddled bay 
for the usual evening canter—he didn’t crave an inter¬ 
view with Grace tonight. Swift thoughts of a partial 
victory won on top of the bad start in the morning seethed 
hotly within that acute brain; harking hack to the last 
query from Fleetley he resolved indeed that none should 
ever know that he cherished animosity toward anyone, for 
the disturbing events of the day, but deep within the recesses 
of his sore heart he swore that a heavy hand should fall 
on every shoulder concerned—Val, Fleetley, but most of 
all Father O’Connor—at thought of whom he ripped out 
a torrent of oaths. 

Filled with such pleasant musings he sprang into the 
saddle like a trained cavalry man or cow boy and gal¬ 
loped off. 

There was another tumultous meeting that night in the 
historic old rookery—faithfully reported to him by the 
impish Malachi—and when the tired and half crazed men 
filed homeward near midnight, every phase of the strike 
and agreement had been gone over and well thrashed out 
under the leadership of Val and Fleetley. The smattering of 
dissatisfaction was too slight for consideration; the first 
real strike in the Craigie Mill had been won by the men 
—wasn’t that glory enough to retail about firesides and 
wakes for a generation to come? 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


199 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Poor Larry! The prey of conflicting emotions of 
loyalty and reverence, was perhaps the worst affected of 
all outside the super himself; yet this latter, by grace of 
some overwhelming suggestion, or rare delicacy not to be 
expected of one of his domineering disposition, never by 
word or look insinuated that he thought his faithful friend 
should deviate from a path of duty toward his pastor, or 
manifest any warmer concern for his affairs that would 
savor of lack of regard for the priest. Larry appreciated 
it in the spirit rendered and the wailing notes of “Be¬ 
lieve Me” and the other classic were wafted even oftener 
than usual from the stalled depths of the stable mingled 
with the half impatient euconiums on the restlessness of the 
live stock. He best of all knew the frightful impression 
made on the sensibilities of his young employer, and 
sought persistently with all that soothing eloquence of 
the Celt to soften the raging mood to a calm contemplation 
of the affair as a mere incident. 

But Coggeshall was not to be denied the mental draughts 
that made of his moody cogitation a luxury, any more 
than he denied himself the comfort of the physical draughts 
in which he indulged in far too much for his good, as he 
listened in strained patience to Larry’s recitals of those 
stirring scenes that had taken place before he could realize 
them. And as if all this were not enough to plague Larry, 
he became aware, instinctively, of the more potent har¬ 
binger of trouble in the knowledge of the dubious passion 
for the beautiful niece of the Old Man. “Milia murther!” 
he gasped bleakly, “Love—f’r lagniappe!” as if the depths 
of bitterness had been probed in the exercise of the softer 
emotion. 

Coggeshall did brighten visibly for a time the morning 
after the adjustment, when at the conclusion of the last 
siren call the old hum and clatter of machinery sang of 
the contract that had given him the many uneasy moments, 
lulling his business soul to peace as it were, denoting that 


200 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

if one precedent had been established in the Craigie Mill 
a contract breaking one had not; Coggeshall strove harder 
than ever to regain as he thought the confidence of the 
Board—that in his modesty he fancied he had lost. 

Even Grace’s presence when she came down to the of¬ 
fice with her uncle caused less irritation while she spent a 
delightful hour running between him and Bridget; the 
strike was plainly regarded by all as a closed incident and 
gradually the chagrined super began to coddle himself into 
the belief that it had assumed immense proportions only in 
his overheated imagination. The sudden reaction from 
the recent tension offered him all the more freedom for a 
secret nourishing of plans for a terrible resentment to be 
directed against all concerned in his reversal of pride, 
while the renewed avowals of esteem on the part of his 
superiors incited him to the desire to fully merit them by 
a master stroke, gradually fermenting within his fertile 
brain. 

Larry’s two or three excursions to the City seeking a clue 
to the whereabouts of his brother’s keeper had up to this 
time been discouragingly barren of results; had the harbor 
swept up the Hill and engulfed all the denizens with whom 
the young greenhorn had been on terms of intimacy their 
obliteration could not have been more complete. Merely 
walking in circles, but grimly determined withal, he stuck 
to the labor of love, spurred on when threatened with a 
sinking of courage or flagging of interest by the sober re¬ 
flection that nothing short of definite word—one way or the 
other—would serve to appease the craving of the isolated 
Coggeshall. Thus far, however, their quest had remained 
a secret between them—the old Puritan human respect de¬ 
terring Coggeshall from pretending an interest in an aband¬ 
oned relative. 

In the midst of the lively conversation between Grace, 
Bridget and Coggeshall, there came a disturbing clatter on 
the runway without, and looking toward the Mill they per¬ 
ceived a group of hands, bare headed and bare armed, shuf¬ 
fling awkwardly along to the office, evidently supporting 
some object in their midst; before the super could throw 
open the door for an inquiry he was enabled to perceive 
Fleetlev the object of their attention, hanging limply in 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


201 


their grasp—then the door was flung wide and they crowd¬ 
ed in. 

Lance, deathly pale, his left arm crudely swathed in 
waste and cloths, deeply blood stained, sank into a chair 
with a ghastly shudder while his assistants all sought at 
once to explain. Finally they made it clear that his hand 
had been drawn into a gearing he was oiling and—to hear 
them tell it—fairly ground to pieces. Grace resolutely 
pushed the men to one side and with an order to have her 
carriage brought, started to examine the frightful hurt. 
Despite his great agony, evidenced by the beads of per¬ 
spiration starting from his brow, Fleetley could not for¬ 
bear an admiring glance at his entrancing nurse—it was 
returned with a sweet, reassuring smile for good measure. 

The simple remedies the office afforded—and at that 
time the appliances for first aid were only to be found in 
the hospital which the victim often failed to reach—were 
drawn forth and before taking him to the train for the 
ride to the City hospital .she herself made ready for an ex¬ 
amination to determine if anything might be done. 

“Better leave it alone” he panted between set teeth, “It’s 
—it’s no entrancing vision.” 

“But I can’t bear to see all these dirty rags on it” she 
answered firmly, “There is too strong a hint of blood pois¬ 
oning in them” and went on with the repulsive task of 
loosening the sopping mass with hands as firm and gentle 
as those of the trained nurse. Through half shut eyes, 
eyes that told of his pain as distinctly as words, Lance 
watched the deft, caressing fingers as they unwound the 
shreds of waste and touched the torn and mangled fibres 
and muscle with a more or less soothing lotion; the harsh 
lines of his suffering face softened gradually, the pain 
deadened—he believed himself drifting away into scented 
fields where-gentle breezes blew and tiny brooks sang of 
joy—“He has fainted” she announced—and it was almost 
as much in ecstasy as pain. 

To the immense relief of all a local doctor now ran in 
and with a genuine sigh of relief Grace, white and tremb¬ 
ling, relinquished her first patient. He did what he could 
to relieve the pain, then ordered him to the hospital where 
he was sure at least two of the fingers would have to be 


202 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


amputated. So they helped him (after he had revived a 
trifle) into the carriage and Grace drove swiftly to the 
station where, with the help of Larry, idling about with 
Mike, she put him aboard the train. Mike convoyed him 
to the Massachusetts General Hospital where three of the 
fingers were amputated and whence he issued in three 
weeks maimed indeed for life, but still bouyant under the 
cheerful good nature of his optimistic fatalism. 

“Now, who is he?” demanded Grace with a pretty as¬ 
sumption of interest after returning to the office. 

“The hands call him ‘Mysterious Fleetley’ that is all I 
know” said Winthrop shortly, rather nettled not only at 
her unseemly attentions to a common Mill hand, but her 
evident interest in his personality. He considered him al¬ 
most beneath the curiosity of a cultured woman. “All 
sorts of rumors are afloat concerning his past” he added 
with a careless attempt at dismissal of the unseemly topic. 

‘“Face and manner give every indication of some sort 
of refinement” she mused, his tone and words lost on her. 

“Oh, he’s educated” broke in Bridget, “I’ve heard Val 
tell of the books he has in his room—” 

“Where is that?” Grace persisted with disconcerting in¬ 
terest. 

“He has a bachelor room in the Rookery-—” 

“Well—the Rookery—indeed!” 

“He prepares most of his own meals there too; Val says 
he reads in two or three languages—Greek, Latin—some 
others” dubiously. Grace’s eyes sparkled. 

“In a Mill town!—no wonder they call him a mystery” 
she laughed; “and what a peculiar trail his fortune has 
picked for him” with a sad intonation at thought of a 
rude future so terribly handicapped. Coggeshall with a 
desperate effort, ironed the wrinkles in his forehead ere 
trusting himself to a pursuit of the, to her, engrossing 
topic. 

“And apt to have an abrupt termination” darkly; “if 
any of the numerous hints as to his past are seized upon 
by the police” coldly; Grace repelled the aspersion with 
a gesture. 

“Oh, no, it is impossible to construe anything sinister 
in such an open countenance and refinement of manner— 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


203 


there is nothing but the usual gossiping foundation for the 
hints I am sure"’ with a look at Bridget, who could hard¬ 
ly contain a desire to come to his defense also. Cogge- 
shall shrugged his shoulders and managed to catch the 
shifty eye of the lingering Malachi who, with a vast pre¬ 
tense of making himself useful in the office, lingered to 
see where he might make himself useful to his boss—said 
look intimating to him with lightning like rapidity the 
workings of the super’s mind and affording a delightful 
hint for a garbage investigation by himself. 

“One of the swell mob looking like a vinegar barrel 
and tasting like a lemon would be scarcely able to make 
a living these days” he shot back with a slight betrayal 
of unwonted irritation, and she, sensing his aversion to 
a further discussion of the newly discovered attraction 
politically refrained from further comment thereon and 
permitted the talk to stray into more congenial channels. 
But her eager speculations were resumed on her home ar¬ 
rival, finally causing even the absorbed Craigie to unbend 
to the extent of pondering the possibility of harboring a 
mystery more complex and inscrutable than himself. 

Thus it was that one evening as the “mystery” sat in his 
room reading the evening paper after his return from the 
hospital he was astounded—when he had bid the tapper 
on his door enter—at being confronted by Grace and 
Bridget as they came into his bachelor den. He dropped 
his pipe on the window seat beside him and wrapping the 
folds of an old dressing gown about him as well as he 
could with one arm, came gracefully and instinctively to 
his feet. The refined motion, the unabashed bearing with 
which he greeted them, were not lost on the keenly ap¬ 
praising Grac as she stepped to his side to shake his hand 
the while she made a sudden survey of the pale features. 

“How do you feel? Im awfully glad that you’ve come 
out of the hospital” with a warm pressure of the hand; 
he waited until both had taken seats—all the room afford¬ 
ed in fact—before answering, while a flush of gratified 
reserve stole over his mobile features. 

“Oh, I’m elegant” he laughed, “that is, of course, what’s 
left of me—” waving the bandaged arm; Bridget spread 
on the table some dainties they had brought and he ack- 


204 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


nowledged their acceptance with a fervor awakened more 
by the prospect of mental than creature comfort. 

“Does it pain much?” Grace asked as she sat where 
the tiny light fell with alluring splendor on her features 
—which needed nothing artificial to enhance their bril¬ 
liancy, thought the dazzled Fleetley; he made a wry face. 

“At times—when I fall asleep at night and forget it— 
it reverts to memory dear with a shock that almost lifts 
me out of bed” and then laughed so care free that both 
the girls were forced to join. He absorbed much that 
pleased, evidently, out of the air of concern shown by her 
and taking the privilege of an invalid he feasted his eyes 
on her radiant face. 

“Have you any means now that your income has been 
cut off?” she asked with a business like air of directness 
and sincerity that robbed the question of aught that might 
have appeared pertinent in another; again he laughed the 
infectious laugh. 

“I believe I’m a week ahead of the game—I haven’t 
seen the poor house ambulance pass the door yet” he as¬ 
sured her brightly. 

“I wasn’t sure that you had been informed that your 
wages will go on just the same—if you care” she explained 
somewhat timidly, “that is why I asked—” 

“I see” he said gravely, “and thank you for your in¬ 
terest—” 

“Now do you need any help about the room?” she 
broke in hurriedly, to forestall his praises, as her glance 
swept the apartment with a revelation of the enmity that 
has been put between woman and dirt—in the hovel or 
the palace. He smiled as his regards followed hers about 
the room. 

“Val says the room represents a case of main strength 
and awkwardness” Bridget laughed. 

“Don’t put on too strong glasses when you appraise this 
ranch” he cautioned, “the boys come in every night and 
take turns in giving it a lick and a promise that looks 
miraculous to them—but I fear a woman would imagine 

herself wading in filth.” She looked the room over critic¬ 
ally. 

“Really, I believe you are slandering the good fellows 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


205 


—it doesn’t look so bad, honest.” Then rising and assist¬ 
ed by Bridget, she added a few touches here and there 
that indubitably betrayed to the men who came next that 
their virgin precincts of discomfort and carelessness had 
been ruthlessly invaded. Later, she learned from Larry 
that there were deft touches in the renovating done by 
Fleetley himself that suggested nothing so much as the 
ship shape trimness of a marine—which of course only 
served to deepen the mystery surrounding the impene¬ 
trable Lance Fleetley. 

Before they left, two or three of the faithful hands 
dropped in as was the custom, and urged by Fleetley, Grace 
and Bridget stayed not only to hear their comments on 
Mill affairs and politics but to watch interestedly several 
desperate games of “Forty Five” and “High, Low, Jack.” 
At intervals Miss Colquhoun managed to steal glances at 
the shelves that confirmed her friend’s assertion that the 
“mystery” possessed a fairly large and select library; 
mentioning which drew from Bridget her disappointment 
that he had not favored them with snatches of the foreign 
languages that he knew, but the more acute Grace assured 
her that that was vulgar ostentation. And Fleetley was 
not vulgar. 

The one fly in the ointment of the visit was the un¬ 
heralded, unwanted and heartily disgusting intrusion of 
Malachi who, making his first visit, timed it admirably— 
staying as long as the women did, in an atmosphere that, 
as far as he was concerned could have laid the foundation 
for chillblains. 

He derived his satisfaction in retailing to the unrespon¬ 
sive Coggeshall all he had seen and heard—with some 
he had not —causing his auditor to become jealous of this 
unpropitious visit to the slums—which he chose to desig¬ 
nate Grace’s visit of mercy. It was the one element need¬ 
ed to fan the fast gaining fire of passion into a veritable 
demon—like all others swallowed in their selfish personali¬ 
ties he suddenly came to the conclusion, that when he 
chose to become interested in another, that other must 
respond quite as ardently. Despite sneering references to 
Fleetley’s possible history, it was no balm to his wounded 
feelings to reflect that the object of her solicitude must 



206 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


inevitably fall into the clutches of the outraged law— 
rather, it galled him the more to think that one so in¬ 
consequential could be capable of inflicting vicarious tor¬ 
tures on him, the spotless Winthrop Coggeshall. 

Whether the Machiavellian Malachi, stung by the un¬ 
grateful reception of his big news, delighted in avenging 
himself secretly by administering subtle punishment to 
his boss in the persistent sneaking recountal of the fre¬ 
quent visits Grace and her chaperone Bridget made to the 
Rookery must be forever left in the realms of conjecture, 
but certain it is that he performed the parasitic obliga¬ 
tion with a dogged tact and determination that aroused the 
suspicion it amused himself more than the unfortunate 
for whom it was arranged; still more certain is it that, 
engrossed as he was in his repulsive task, he never dreamed 
how often the tip of the fashionable shoe trembled to apply 
itself to the point of that crooked hip—a consummation 
only baffled in the exasperated and bedevilled Coggeshall. 
after a hard struggle with his self respect, indicating a 
forbearance under the circumstances that might be traced 
to some dim and remote inculcation of Christianity. 

One morning Malachi gave the signal that he himself 
had invented when he wished to impart something par¬ 
ticularly enthralling to the super; Coggeshall encountered 
him a moment later in the deserted passageway between 
the dye and weaving rooms and stopped to listen with 
the same assumed air of cold disdain. 

“I found this in his room” Malachi said simply, as he 
handed the surprised Coggeshall a tiny scrap of paper; 
scrupling nothing as to the methods of acquisition he took 
it in the studied silence that characterized all his moves 
with Malachi, then passed on, leaving the malevolent spy 
with a look on his face such as a man hears who, five 
minutes after taking a dose of castor oil which he wildly 
strives to keep down, inadvertently licks his lips. 

It was part of a sheet of very fine stationery, evidently 
off the corner, for at the top was a finely embossed crest 
beneath which just a part of the beginning sentence was 
visible— “Your Lords—”. Instantly regretting his un¬ 
gracious reception of the missive Coggeshall retraced his 
steps to where Malachi still stood, moody and depressed. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


207 


“What do you know about this?'’ he snapped; a glad 
grin—quite like the tail wagging of the cur after the boy 
tormentor has consented to remove the tin ware from his 
hind quarters—overspread his repellent phiz. 

“One o’th’hands was emptying th’waste basket in his 
room sor, an’ this dropped out.” Coggeshall swore softly 
to himself and Malachi prayed—possibly producing the 
same moral effect. 

“Where’s the rest of it?” curtly. 

“Why” in the tones of distressed injured innocence, “I 
thried hard enough sor, but th’rest was burned” and his 
features added to the distress of the revelation. 

Coggeshall, seeing further querying futile, went his way 
in deep thought over this baffling revelation. It might 
mean nothing—and it might mean a lot. Taking into con¬ 
sideration the nature of the man, his obvious intellectual 
attainments, his aloofness from (despite his deep interest, 
in) the men, the recent predilection manifested for his 
company by —her (he shuddered) rather combined to call 
a halt in the tumult of emotional hate that had obsessed 
him in the latter few weeks. He made a swift decision— 
he would have a detective look him up with the hopes of 
locating him as a foreign swindler, a result that would re¬ 
move him from his path in two ways-as concerned 

Grace and the Mill operatives. 

For life was becoming topsy turvy to the equable temp¬ 
ered Puritan in the shadow of recent happenings. There 
had been aroused a slim prospect of finding a lost brother 
or learning his fate, a desire for revenge on Father O’Con¬ 
nor for his defeat, an overwhelming, blind passion for 
Miss Colquhoun—all went into a melting pot that pro¬ 
duced a species of moody madness and abruptness of 
action that Larry quickly noted as a certain reversion to 
the type essayed by his hapless father. 

Success for any one of his plans he craved—revenge or 
love. He was forced to confess to his soul that he was 
making slow headway with the cool beauty. Perfectly well 
aware of those animal attainments within him that force 
a surrender to the sex yearning on the part of the average 
female, he realized nevertheless that she was resisting his 
blandishments as none had ever done before, with a sang 



208 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

froid that was simply maddening. He had been willing to 
abase himself before the hands, when he comprehended the 
tenor of her thoughts for them to secure himself in her 
regards, yet she chose to look upon his self denial as be¬ 
ing of such a casual character as not to be worth the 
reward of a smile from her ravishing lips. He was talent¬ 
ed, cultured and wealthy—his was a family infinitely 
above hers, as he sometimes bitterly ruminated—yet the 
intangible something quite requisite to the overwhelming of 
the female soul was indubitably missing. Not that he for 
a moment despaired—oh no—her coolness was an in¬ 
cessant goad, but he was gradually tiring of the hum drum 
existence of the Mill and the atavistic yearning for change 
and excitement gnawed at his very vitals. But he swore 
he would not stir until Grace Colquhoun went as his wife. 

With the termination of Fleetley’s invalidism—rather 
assumed by the crafty admirer toward the last—the visits 
to the Rookery ceased and with a sigh of relief Coggeshall 
assured himself that her interest must cease also—it is one 
thing to be a distressed human and another to be a greasy 
toiler. There was actually nothing in their diverging 
careers to permit a simulation of intimacy that would jus¬ 
tify them in appearing in a familiar role before the captious 
town critics, she only saw him occasionally as he passed 
through the office bent on the work he had been assigned 
by reason of his crippled condition. But the complaisant 
Coggeshall reckoned without the usual astuteness. It never 
occured to him that in depriving the innocent little Bridget 
of her right to respond to the sex appeal that he might 
have spurred her to give rein to stifled emotions, as regard¬ 
ed others more fortunately minded. But so it was. 

Grace and Bridget rode together occasionally among the 
circling drives that compassed the Mill town, and by de¬ 
grees Fleetley (isolating himself more from the society of 
his fellows) chose the secluded, tree shaded roads for his 
daily revery, with the result that they occasionally met. 
Under the pure chaperonage of the guileless Bridget they 
idled away the long summer twilights as he strolled by the 
buckboard or she got out to peer over the mossy bridge 
into the water flowing away to the ocean, exchanging in 
soft tones the many confidences that, stupid as they may 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


209 


sound to others, are to the parties concerned very delicious, 
very enticing—very dangerous. 

So it was that the unsuspecting Winthrop waited many a 
fair night, cooling his heels in the boring company of the 
prosy Craigie and his smug comrades discussing to mad¬ 
ness the finest details of the wool market or the condi¬ 
tion of the Missionary Society in Timbuctoo, waiting in 
patience only that he might exchange a word with her ere 
he sought his lonely room, little dreamed alas, that 
she was too full of the converse with the despised Mill 
hand to more than utter platitudes to him as h)e left; her 
head still in a whirl with the soft cadences uttered during 
her tryst with the man she was beginning to love. 



210 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The first chill suggestion of coming autumn sent the 
body of mill hands that made up the community sur¬ 
rounding the little cobbler shop (comprehensive of woolen 
mill, hair factory and cotton mill workers) that had idled 
the summer evenings outside on the porch into the cheery 
fire and happy glow by the green shaded lamp swinging 
over the head of the busy cobbler. Here again Mike Allen 
as an entertainer was forced to share his glory, for on 
the outside his efforts were, as one might say, diffused 
by the gentle breezes and lost some of their point and ap¬ 
plication, while on the inside the other wits sort of com¬ 
bined their talents against him; the rude jests and so 
called smart remarks that flowed from right to left were 
as well received by the crude minded audience as were 
his pithier and wiser sayings. 

His keenest rival (and also dreaded tormentor) was a 
brilliant youth, Peter Flanigan by name, one much young¬ 
er than the revered Mike and imbued with all that pert- 
ness that comes of unrebuked loquacity, possessed of a 
mind stored with all those floating evidences of up-to-date 
cleverness that pass for education; a sort of intellectuality 
that only reached the slower going Mike after it had been 
digested by Peter’s following of budding wits, rendering 
him liable to become the prey of those merry quips from 
which the unsophisticated mind is always forced to suffer. 
The graceless Peter was not only the epitome of unrebuked 
sauciness but a capital dancer—endearing him to the girls 
—a frequenter and retailer of the cheap jokes concocted 
in the lower theatres in the City, a capital story teller, a 
perfect mimic and a musician of considerable ability on 
the accordion. 

It is remarkable how, under Peter’s artistic touch this 
latter instrument became a mark of joy rather than tor¬ 
ture; with what cleverness could he not only play music 
for every square dance known, but draw from its heaving 
sides the seductive strains of every well known song, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


211 


whether it were an Irish “Come All Ye” or the more up-to- 
date and ticklish “Whoa Emma” or the languishing strains 
of “Over The Garden Wall.” His presence was usually 
heralded by a strong odor of that perverted conception 
of perfume known as “Lovage,” which emanating from 
between the spaces rendered vacant by a lost front tooth 
or two gave him (along with a rakish tilt of his old Derby 
hat), an aspect of daredeviltry that his gentle soul really 
didn’t deserve. He was at all times surrounded by a 
carefully selected claque that made him as respectful an 
entourage as any that ever kow towed before the face of 
royalty. 

“I guess Timmy Dolan has took th’pledge” came in¬ 
nocently out of the haze of smoke in Peter’s corner shortly 
after his arrival. 

“D’ye tell me?” whispered the guileless Mike. “Who 
was tellin’ ye Pether?” 

“No one” solemnly. 

“Thin how d’ye know?” in sudden suspicion, for the 
said Timmy was a well known boozer. 

“Pat Donlan sacked two of his bartenders” and in the 
guffaw that ensued poor Mike smoked sadly. Another 
solemn pause. 

“I see Tom Galloway” (a newly fledged lawyer who had 
grown up in the community) “had a big case up in Dedham 
last week—hear about it Mike?” innocently; alas poor 
Mike! 

“D’ye tell me now—what was it Pether?” 

“A case o’lager” at which the crowd howled and the 
unfortunate Mike only pulled the harder on his pipe to 
hide his chagrin. When the laughter subsided Peter and 
a boon companion sprawled on the floor in an imitation 
—Gaelic conversation and all—of a gang of section hands 
setting a rail; not satisfied with this he gave another imi¬ 
tation of Malachi taking a penny out of his purse to put 
in the collection plate—a simulation so life like and clever 
as to be immediately recognized at every wake and wedding 
in the town. 

“D’jer hear th’latest” when the effects of this gem had 
exhausted itself. Again Mike rose to the bait. 

“I did not” he said sourly, “what is it?” 


212 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“It aint out yet’’ at which ebullition of wit and sparkling 
exhalation from the incomparable Peter the crowd went 
off into a paroxysm of joy; Mike turned scarlet, while 
even his crony Larry could not forbear a sly smile at the 
discomfiture of the self made sage. But even if Mike did 
serve for a foil for the scintillating Mr. Flanigan, it was 
rumored that there was a method in his madness; for it 
was common knowledge that after a more than usually 
hard trimming, he managed to meet his tormentor outside 
to wheedle a quarter or a dime out of him, which the 
easy going Peter never dreamed of getting hack, and which 
he equally liberal minded Mr. Allen never dreamed of 
tendering. Which, on the whole, rather kept an even keel 
for their craft. 

“How’s th’ big bay Larry?” someone asked after a time 
out of the murk of tobacco smoke, for the cattle of the 
super interested them always. 

“Why, we’ve got th’stiffness out o’ his leg an’th’vetrinary 
sez we c’n put ’im undher th’ saddle soon again.’ 

“What happened him?” queried Peter. 

“He had ’im out one night last week an’ he thried t’take 
th’wall up beyant th’ bridge—an’ I guess he f’rgot th’ditch 
on th’other side—” 

“Huh!” broke in a youngster shrilly, “th’super wouldn’t 
have tried it if he wasn’t three sheets in th’wind—” 

“That’ll do out o’you” Larry cried in unusual sternness, 
in which he was joined by a loyal roar from the crowd; 
they were with Coggeshall now, they were attached to him 
with all the fealty of their race; although it was a pretty 
well known fact that he had been out riding with a gay 
party there was to be no aspersing of him in their hearing; 
the precocious youngster settled down sulkily and took 
precious good care to keep his tongue between his teeth 
the rest of the evening. Then Val made a welcome diver¬ 
sion by striding in. Even the taciturn cobbler granted him 
a smile as he settled into a seat made vacant by thrusting 
out of it a sleepy youngster, while his spouse paused long 
enough in the task of putting the children to bed to come 
to the door to pass the time with him, the while a pro¬ 
testing baby hung plastered to her hip in the clutch of 
her brawny arm. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


213 


“Ah, there!” from the effervescent Peter. 

'"Stay there!” in the comprehensive slang of the day 
as he insinuated himself into genial ray of light and cloud 
of tobacco smoke. 

“Tell that to Bridget” in free and easy reference to the 
condition of affairs existing between him and Miss White 
which seemed to furnish the lot as much amusement as 
the wittiest saying of Mr. Flanigan. 

“Well, I suppose she wont stay there very long now” 
pursued Mike gravely, while Val assumed a pretended air 
of embarrassment; it was merely a part of the customary 
banter inseperably connected with the imminent stage of 
marriage; as such the hapless couple could only grin and 
bear it with the coolest air of unconcern possible under 
the circumstances. Perhaps it might seem as crude and 
rough to the higher circles as did the light aspect of the 
marriage tie amongst them appear repulsive to these simple 
hearted people. 

“Thinkin’ o’ givin’ up her job?” Peter interpolated in 
mild surprise. Mike winked very ostentatiously at him. 

“Yes—they tell me she’s goin’ t’be superintindint of a 
new Mill startin' up at th’corner o’ Mason an’ Slade Street.” 
Val sat back quietly while this delicious—to the rest— 
double meaning banter went on. 

“I’ll bet she’ll be back lookin’ f’r her old job before a 
year” Peter remarked gloomily. 

“Ah get out!” 

“There’s a long, hard winter cornin’ on an’ by th’ time 
she’s split th’ kindlin’ an’ carried up th’ coal an’ sifted 
th’ashes an’ lit th’ fire in th’ mornin’—I’ll bet she’ll wish 
she was hack with th’Old Man’.” This very gloomy re¬ 
hearsal of a condition of marital affairs rather common in 
the vicinity occasioned a fresh howl of delight in which 
even the martyred Val was forced to join and protest. At 
this juncture came a diversion, in the performance by 
Mike of his famous feat of lighting his pipe with a fresh 
coal plucked from the stove, which was looked upon with 
all the zest and interest manifested on its first doing. 

“All right fellers” Val cried finally, “Bridgie White’ll 
fool all of yer-yet—she aint goin’ t’give up her job.” 

“That settles it Mike—yer can’t get it” Peter announced 
and the crowd fell upon him again. 


214 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“We hear enough” he said when he could make himself 
heard, “but I’ll bet a dollar y’ll be spittin’ on yer own 
stove afure Advent,” which daring challenge provoked 
cries at Val’s expense and brought a flush of pleasure to 
his strong features. If he had had any doubts as to the 
ultimate effect of his courtship of the pretty and vivacious 
Bridget White this whole souled if uncouth advertisement 
by his many friends served to dissipate them; it almost 
made the affair arise beyond the field of conjecture or 
demur. She had been only fooling with him in her modest 
and maidenly reserve, there surely could be no intent to 
yield her entire future for the shallow ways surrounding 
a career in an office. So he believed he could afford to 
sit and dream in happy fashion, while the bubbling Peter 
and the judicial Mike tossed his prospects back and forth 
for the delight of the listeners. 

“An’speakin’o’th’divil he’s sure t’appear” quoted Peter 
when simultaneously with the clang of the bell on the hoop 
over the door, his eye lit on the crooked form and the 
impish features of the hated Malachi as he slowly and 
deftly insinuated himself through the tiny crack he made, 
and crept into the room. 

“God save all here” he quavered in a voice that expressed 
the opposite; for an instant there was a sudden hush during 
which every occupant of the smoke laden room with the 
exception of the cobbler, (who was forced for business 
reasons to be just to all) favored the intruder with about 
as hearty a glance of welcome as the Hebrew merchant 
bestows on a fresh young drummer of his own race who on 
his last trip unloaded a years old style on him. 

“Don’t curse us Malachi” begged Peter awfully, “We 
aint done anything to yow.” 

“Divil take ye Pether”—began Malachi with as sweet a 
voice as the sound made by drawing a rasp over a boiler 

“There! that’s better—” in a well simulated relief, 
“th’ curse’s off us now.” Malachi finally located a seat— 
none being hospitably tendered however and squatted on it 
with a huge sigh of relief. 

“Y’re always jokin’ Pether” he whined and hunched 
his shoulders until he was enabled to catch the cold eye 
of Val; something in the latter’s look seemed to afford 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


215 


him vast pleasure if one were to judge by the crinkles in his 
ugly visage and the throaty chuckles he emitted. “How 
d’ye do Misther Crosby?” he demanded with a grimace. 
Val spat angrily. 

“Just as I danged please” he snapped which evidence of 
petulence seemed to brighten the atmosphere for Malachi. 

“Sure ye do, sure ye do” he cackled as he cracked his 
dingy fingers, “especially since th’strike.” 

“Small thanks t’yow!” growled Mike; Malachi only 
grinned. 

“Well, at laste I didn’t hur—rt nawthin’ did I?” he 
snarled. 

“We don’t know yet” sneered Peter and while Malachi 
pondered, (or pretended to ponder that dark hint), he 
gave his renowned and clever imitation of Malachi in 
pantomime talking to the Old Man—said performance 
consisting of showing a man crawling on all fours licking 
something with his tongue. 

“It ain’t what anyone did —’tis what some that might 
be mentioned, didn't’’ ” he called back darkly; ordinarily 
there was little or no attention conferred on him outside 
Peter’s witty attempts, but tonight there was a palpable 
something in the air and words that forced attention on him. 

“What have ye in th’back o’yer head now?” growled 
Mike; Malachi favored him with a withering glance. 

“Me own business—” 

“It’ll never give yer a head ache” broke in Peter. 

“An’ if some others cud do as much an’ be as faithful 
as I ha’been—” 

“God save us fr’m all harm” prayed Peter and crossed 
himself piously. 

“There nivir need ha’ been a sthrike at all” he shouted 
with a challenging look toward Val. This caused the 
latter to turn on him for the first time—he exuded a sus¬ 
picious atmosphere. 

“As I was pretty freely mixed in th’strike” he said in¬ 
cisively,“I’d like t’know t’just what extent it could ha’been 
avoided?” Malachi grimaced sarcastically—it was enough 
for him that he had got under his hide. 

“Why this much” he said caustically cracking his 
knuckles with maddening nonchalance, “th’Ould Man 
cuddent afford t’have a sthrike—” 


216 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Tell us something we don’t know’’ hotly from Peter 
but Val silenced him with a frown. 

“So? And why, since yer know so much,” Malachi 
favored him with a look that would have soured milk. 

“F’r one thing, Craigie’s got th’biggest ordher o’ th’year 
th’ Saturdah befoor th’sthrike” he rambled on aimlessly 
as if conning it to himself, although the devilish leer in 
his snaky eye, as revealed in the ray from the lofty lamp, 
denoted a set purpose in his recital. For an instant none, 
including Val, caught the import of that conventional 
announcement—then the color slowly receded from his face 
leaving it a ghastly shade in the semi gloom, while the keen 
eyes took on a look of one in deep physical pain. But 
above all was the notice of impending rage. 

“How do yer know that?” Val finally forced himself 
to demand through hot quivering lips; Malachi was reading 
him intently and noted every trace of the effect of his words. 

“ ‘Cause we all knowed it” he said in a tone that drew on 
the pair the attention of everyone, the little cobbler pausing 
with his waxed ends pulled at arm’s length as if lacking the 
power to close them. “I saw Collamore an’ ” an impressive 
pause during which Val almost ceased to breathe, “An 
—Bridget readin ttitiligram!” A dead silence followed 
that announcement, scarcely broken by the intake of as¬ 
tonished gasps as the crowd sensed the terrific meaning of 
that. Bridget White, Val’s future wife knew the news that 
would have made even a walk out unnecessary—ah! The 
color slowly flowed back to VaFs face but his eyes blurred 
as if the smoke haze were affecting them and out of the 
circle of faces arose myriads of eyes to accuse him of 
fostering treason. 

“My God!” he thought, “Bridget had known of this 
order, the order that would have won the strike hands down 
—not only that but had acted in an unconcerned manner 
during their walk the next day, had even approached a 
quarrel with him! This latter was of course a trick to 
throw him off the track—if she permitted him to overcome 
her with protestations of love it would have jeopardized 
her loyalty to Coggeshall! How close he had been to 
guessing the truth!” 

There was a rasping senseless talk on the part of the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


217 


crowd to overcome his and their embarrassment—the little 
cobbler dropped his waxed ends, poured himself a bumper 
of tacks and seizing a shoe savagely between his knees, 
thumped and pounded a row of tacks that surely must have 
astonished the wearer of the maltreated pedal ornaments 
the first time he essayed to thrust his feet into them. A 
news item in the daily paper might have gone unnoticed, 
a hint in the Sunday sermon might have fallen on deaf ears 
—but to think that any announcement could be made in 
the cobbler’s shop and not become common property inside 
of twenty four hours was as incomprehensible as that the 
moon would cease to shine with a reflected light. Val need 
make no pretense of innocence for his sweetheart, he need 
offer no apologies—the case was in the hands of the grand 

jury. 

“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’ ” he said finally as he arose 
and yawned with a great affect of unconcern, “so long 
fellers” not asking for company and none, not even the 
privileged Peter Flanigan, having the nerve to proffer it 
or urge his continuance in the happy circle. 

“Musha thin, high hangin’ t’you on a windy day” 
roared Mike at the very unperturbed Malachi, “f’r a danged 
black hearted crow—wid yer warnin’o’ thrubble—bad cess 
t’ye, ye spawn o’ th’Ould Nick!” which torrent of abuse 
the delighted Malachi received with as placid an air of 
delight as does the successful candidate receive the news of 
his election;he felt he was being complimented. 

Then he arose—that is he had the intention of arising 
—but tarried a moment longer than he intended through 
reasons over which he had no control;said circumstances 
consisting of an immense clod of cobbler’s wax that the 
high spirited Peter had put on his seat before he sat down, 
which clung to him so lovingly and closely that had he 
not hastily changed his mind about the parting, would 
have created a hiatus in his nether garments not compatible 
with his public appearance for a few moments. Being 
finally pried loose by the united efforts of the sympathetic 
cobbler and unsympathetic beholders of his plight— 
although the latter, to do them justice, made the Samaritan 
duty as unpleasant for the victim as possible—he went 
sadly on his way, prying bits of the sticky mess from his 


218 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


garment all the way home, breathing curses with every step 
on the jokers of the shop. 

Val took the long way around going home that night; 
he had set out with the determination of facing his re¬ 
creant sweetheart at once but with a sudden and unlrish 
rush of prudence came to the realization that he was in 
no mood for the sort of talk in which he must indulge. 
At any other time he would have angrily rejected the 
crooked Malachi’s hint as too frothy for consideration, but 
with every detail of her recent conduct rushing over him, 
like the waters over the cotton Mill dam, her too patent 
predilection for the company both of Coggeshall 
and Craigie’s niece, made things look awfully black for her 
that night. 

Too well he knew the impression her action would create 
in that circumscribed community, too well he knew how 
she would be abhorred as a traitor, a stigma that to the 
loyal Irish blood is almost as bad as death itself; she was 
now down to the level of the unspeakable Malachi Clark. 
If he gave her up—which he had not the slightest intention 
of doing—it would only make it harder, with absolutely 
no compensatory relief for their isolation; on the other 
hand did he persist in marrying her, it would simply mean 
that he compounded her treason and would drive them both 
farther from the narrow rut in which their people travelled. 
In either case Bridget had wrought a cruel wrong—he 
made himself believe that, although he knew she could not 
tell him of the order without being a traitor to her superiors 
•—but the sting of Malachi’s announcement served to drive 
all reason from his head, all sense of justice from his soul, 
as he smarted under the goad of the accusing looks of his 
friends. Then his heart grew cold with the horror of 
another thought—she had done it because of her attachment 
for the handsome super! He sickened and staggered 
on the public street like a drunken man. 

If he were not absolutely sure of her innocence and 
purity there would have arisen a darker shadow in his soul 
but he could not bring himself to create an image any way 
sinister comprehending the pretty, gentle and well reared 
Bridget White—yet what would the censorious world have 
to say to her defection? His brain was as a raging fire at 
that reflection. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


219 


CHAPTER XX 

A few nights after Bridget and Val met at a wake; here 
they were the center of attraction (outside the corpse and 
the mourners) not for their tender display—but for the 
astonishing lack of it. Everybody thought that by this the 
affair was settled; yet here was Val openly flirting with 
the girls and Bridget as openly ignoring it. Nor did it 
help Val to note the devilish air of satisfaction with which 
Malachi drank in the (to him) comforting draught. 

Finally, Bridget made leaving preparations; Val man- 
euvred to follow her and was made aware of the fact that 
the little black imp, Clark, was having his farewell tilt with 
the wits in the wake house. Sure enough, only waiting 
to see the direction the so called lovers took, he hurried 
along by another alley path by means of which he was 
enabled to gain a vantage point beside the White porch, on 
which his keen eyes had often noted, the two remained for 
leave taking. 

The walk home had been a dull, forbidding affair, totally 
lacking in the interchange of soft nothings and pretended 
reprisals that usually characterize the strolls of the soon to 
be wedded—in no measure due either to the depression of 
their recent calling place, for the dead man nor his taking 
off had been referred to. On the part of Crosby there 
was a restless lack of ease due to a hope that she would 
somehow broach the subject in such a way as to permit him 
to tell innocently the news received from Malachi without 
seeming to attach too much importance to it, or permit it 
to imbue him with any ill will for the part she had played; 
while on her side there was a wildly said prayer of hope 
I hat nothing might be ventu red by him that would precipitate 
the brooding catastrophe—her total renunciation of his love. 
For it had come to this—that she would give up life he pre¬ 
ferred, not him,—she could not deny to her gentle, honest 
heart that she still loved him. 

Despite the imminent danger of having their tete a tete 


» 


220 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

summarily and rudely broken in on by an at times irascible 
parent, too often cached just within the portals, prone— 
on the occasions others desire to enjoy at few moments more 
of the night’s gentle zephrys—to decide that it is the proper 
time for “decent” people to be in bed, they maintained a 
rigid and unwonted silence, each waiting for the other to 
make the first advance, yet each knowing that he should 
take the initiative. 

“Th’super have anything t’say these days?” Val finally 
asked quietly. 

“No—taking it all out in thinking I guess” she laughed, 
knowing he referred to Coggeshall’s attitude on the result of 
the strike. 

“About th’healthiest thing he c’n do I guess” he went 
on dully; then after a torturing silence—“said anything 
t’him about leavin* yet Bridgie? ’ taking the bit in his 
teeth. She glanced up quickly with a surprise she was 
unable to dissemble—and dismay that only the gloom of 
their corner prevented him observing. 

“I—I—am not going to quit very soon as I know” she 
answered measuredly and faintly—then turned slightly 
to evade the spasm of pain that caused him to wince per¬ 
ceptibly—a display that, had the listening sneak observed 
he would have fairly enjoyed. 

“We—we’d—oughter get married this fall—don’t yer 
think so Bridgie?” he faltered with a weight of pain in 
tone and entreaty; she shook her head in long and dis¬ 
tressed agitation. 

“I—I—don’t think I care to get married at all Val” 
she spoke with a cruel sob in her throat. It fairly swept 
him off his feet and he came erect with a smothered cry 
that would have melted a heart of stone; he actually 
reeled under the impact, for several moments he tried to 
rally his scattered wits for an answer. 

“Not get married Bridgie? Not marry me at all? D’yer 
mean that, just that?” He. had her by her slender shoulders 
in a flash and swinging her about as if she were a feather 
lifted her into the ray of light drifting through the crack 
in the door that he might glare hungrily down into the 
marble features; she closed her eyes before the onset of 
those pitiful ones—it was as if they blinded her—and thus 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


221 


they stood in mute, bewildering antagonism. His breath 
came in the short, rasping gasps of the man tearing up the 
steep hillside—while she seemed to have stopped breathing 
entirely. And all the time the miserable spy beneath them 
hugged himself with many chuckles that almost betrayed his 
presence. 

Across the street a crowd homeward bound from the 
wake was rousing the echoes of the night with a happy 
love glee, some fine but untrained young tenor singing 
the verse while the chorus was essayed by the rest with a 
swing and abandon that made up for lack of melody and 
harmony. 

“Overhead the bright stars glittered, 

In the sky the pale moon shone— 

And ’twas from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party 
I was seeing Nelly home.” 

The voices trailed off softly and died down as the 
happy singers dropped out here and there at their homes 
until but a single clear voice chanted the chorus for his 
own company and pleasure from afar, the echoes snatching 
up and bearing on the old college refrain as if reluctant 
to bid adieu to all animate things for the night; slowly, 
mournfully, solemnly the bell in the Cotton Mill—tolled by 
the sleepy watchman—pealed the curfew, eleven o’clock, 
wearied strife settling into peace and contentment with dy¬ 
ing of the final whirring intonation. 

“Merciful God” groaned poor Val, “everybody happy 
but me—an’ God knows I aint done nothin’ t’deserve this 
treatment—what is wrong Bridgie?” he pleaded again, 
maintaining such a close hold on her she felt she would fall 
when released; at that she began to weep—softly, piteously. 

“You’ve done nothing Val—you’re too good for the 
likes of me—I don’t know what’s the matter with me lately 
—sometimes I feel I am doing wrong in refusing you—” 
he broke in on the halting, stumbling, incoherent phrases 
with as close an approximation to profanity as his clean 
heart permitted. 

“But I know” he gritted—and the listener stirred uneasily 
for as well as if he actually saw it was pictured the ugly, 
white line on the face of the young Irishman that spoke 
— murder —for its cause—he himself had seen that look 


222 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


once and suffered from it, with his deadly enmity dating 
from his punishment. Val had caught him striking his 
wife—and sent him spinning ten feet with a mighty kick. 
"It’s Coggeshall” he snarled bitterly, '“that’s what’s th’- 
matter, he’s put yer up t’this—yer've never been th’same 
since yer’ve been tellin’ me about his notion’s of a woman’s 
place, a woman’s work—as if he cared what kind o’ work 
th’likes o’ you do—damn his Yankee hide!” he hissed 
savagely. She saw the swift, unreasonable trend in a Hash 
and sought to counteract it. 

“No, no, don’t, Val—he only gave me advice for the 
best—he means to show me—” but he interrupted with a 
harsh, unpleasant laugh that made her shiver. 

“Folks like him c’n mean nothin’ good f’r th’likes 
o’you an’ me” he persisted doggedly; almost beside him¬ 
self with rage and injured pride. “What’s it o’his cursed 
business if we love each other—we aint goin’ t’marry just 
f’r fun an’ till we get tired of each other like him and his 
rotten gang—we’re hookin’ up f’r life, f’r better ’r worse, 
—God’ll bless our union, th’priest says so—what d’we care 
f’r his dirty insinuations—Bridgie, f’r God’s sake don’t 
break off on me that way, don’t Bridgie, tell me yer’ll 
marry me—do” with a swift and violent recrudescence 
of passion that carrying him quite outside himself, swept 
away every trace of self control and made his pleading of 
such a nature as she had never dreamed—he seemed al¬ 
most irresistible, as, straining her to him, he pinioned her 
while he rained fierce kisses upon cheek and lips and fore¬ 
head. 

What crazy fiend inserted itself into her heart in that 
ecstatic moment she never could resolve, but certain it is 
that at the very instant her lips sought to respond to his 
in clinging sweetness and mute recognition of her surrender, 
while her heart leaped as if it would leave her breast— 
the cold, sneering face of Winthrop Coggeshall came dis¬ 
tinctly between them and leered cynically into her eyes. 
Thus it was when Val, thinking that his impetuous con¬ 
fession and passion had conquered her released her with 
a vast sigh of happiness—secure in the belief that he had 
won—she dropped back and half turning from his re¬ 
straining arms, even while her frame quivered in joy of 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 223 

that delicious embrace and her voice shook precariously 
—resolved to renounce him. 

“If it were alone his advice I sought to guide me” she 
managed to say with a coldness that simply chilled him, 
“I would be a fool even to argue his side of the case with 
you—but I have come to that way of thinking by my 
prayers and meditation; I am convinced that marriage 
is not my vocation.” 

For a moment he stood as if petrified, the massive should¬ 
ers rigid, the impressive head poised statue like, his 
hands still outstretched in the attitude of appeal, with a 
face she knew must be haggard, a grip in his throat that 
made it rattle; she even essayed to pass him to enter the 
house, but he forbade it—and it was in the thin shaft of 
light shot out by the kerosene lamp that her alluring 
features were lit up theatrically, revealing every shade 
and tracing to his appraising eyes. 

“An’ that” he said, although his white lips hardly 
moved, “an’ that is why yer refused t’help yer own by 
tellin’ us of th’ big order th’day before th’strike!” She 
started—then paused as if turned to stone—and Malachi 
would have given a week’s salary to have seen the look 
in the eyes of the once lovers. 

“You—you are unjust—you are not yourself, Val—no” 
she managed to whisper faintly, “I could not play—you 
know I could not play false—” 

“False!” he muttered nastily, “false—t’Coggeshall— 
o’course not—but t’ws—that was all right—oho— you nasty 
traitor /” and pushing her aside he raced down the steps 
and fled into the frosty gloom. For a moment she stood 
listening to the receding clatter of his footsteps—stupefied 
—then when silence again warned that he had indeed 
gone from her, she turned with a bitter sob, fled within 
the door and running to her room flung herself across 
the bed to muffle from the other occupant the agony she 
dared not give full vent. Now indeed was all over be¬ 
tween them. 

Next morning Malachi awaited in the office the coming 
of Coggeshall to convey to him the latest good news, but 
Larry—who had come down with the boss and could sense 
unerringly the spy’s hankering for a private word with 


224 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


his young employer—hung distractingly about, favoring 
the festering spirited Malachi with unending repetition of 
softly rendered “Believe Me If All These Endearing Young 
Charms” precisely as if he thought that his ancient enemy 
harbored some young charms that persistent wooing would 
inevitably reveal. 

“Good mornin’ Larrence—th’top o’th’mornin’t’ye” 
croaked the ill favored one when first they met, with a 
sleek, oleaginous courtesy that made honest Larry’s gorge 
rise within him and caused his sinewy fingers to itch for 
a grip. 

“I’ll be hung f’r him yet” he confided in strict secrecy 
and bitterness to his soul, as he returned the roseate smile 
with a look that would have grated nutmegs—then aloud— 
“Save yer soft sawder f’r th’awstriches—they has a proper 
stomach f’r that sort o’filth” at which genial return of 
his greeting Malachi grinned as affably as if he were not 
debating which part of Larry’s anatomy to start biting. 

“Ah—ye must ha’ yer joke Misther Coleman” with a 
tantalizing affectation of blarney that almost lifted Larry 
off his feet. 

“An you’ll have yours—at th’ind of a rope—on a windy 
day, y’spawn o’ th’Ould Nick” he shot back bitterly as he 
went out of the office before committing a crime for which 
he might be sorry. At that moment Coggeshall emerged 
from the meeting room of the Board and Malachi waylaid 
him. 

“They’re on th’outs” he suggested significantly under 
his breath—which with its mingling of whiskey and onions 
was capable of concealing anything. 

“How’s that?” said the super unemotionally as he scratch¬ 
ed a match and applied the flame to the cigar already lit. 

“I heard thim quorrle—an’ they didn’t kiss good night 
aither.” Coggeshall, without a sign of animation, with¬ 
out so much as the flicker of an eyelid to reveal any in¬ 
terest in the matter—without a word—stepped past the 
discomfited spy into his office where one of the parties to 
the tragedy was at work with a diligence and application 
that gave the lie to Malachi. Unperceived, he studied his 
innocent victim’s face a moment; what he saw there should 
have melted a heart of stone; to Coggeshall it only brought 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 225 

a gleam of pleasure in the fruition of his scheme, mani¬ 
fested by a sly grin and a gesture of satisfaction—not that 
he was glorying in her obvious misery, but that she was 
proving one of the means to his despicable end. Nor was 
she the first—as she will not be the last—to vicariously 
atone for the failings and delusions of the wicked and 
careless. 

An hour later he took an unaccustomed walk through 
the Mill and as he traversed the weaving room he saw 
Val who, less rugged of soul than his erstwhile sweetheart, 
revealed to the entire world his woe in the haggard face 
and lack lustre eyes, was gazing out of the window at noth¬ 
ing; there was no concealing from anybody the torture his 
honest soul was undergoing at the unwarranted suffering 
thrust upon him. Coggeshall touched him on the shoulder 
in passing and nodded to the outer hall where they would 
be partly free of the disturbing crash of the looms, and 
they passed out. 

“Crosby” he said in his smooth, well modulated tones, 
“do you feel satisfied with conditions here since the 
strike?” Val, who had come out in the wild hope that he 
would offer something giving a valid excuse for a fight, 
was taken very much aback at this departure from the 
usual distant converse and could only stutter and mumble 
his surprise and lack of understanding. 

“What say Mr. Coggeshall?” he demanded, very much 
after the manner of one aroused from a deep slumber and 
not even quite sure he had been addressed. Coggeshall 
smiled, but there was nothing very ingratiating in the 
slight expression that flickered over his handsome face. 

“Just this” with a pretense of impatience, “you’re too 
good a man to be here under the circumstances and if you 
want a decent berth away from the Park — with better 
pay and vastly better prospects—the Craigie people are 
ready and willing to advance your interests, and thereby 
theirs.” 

“I don’t catch on yet—” still plainly bewildered—“what 
are yer driviri’ at—?’ 

“Simply that you are not doing the best here for yourself 
now Crosby” seating himself in a negligent fashion on 
the broad window sill; “since the strike you have been 


226 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

placed in about the same situation as Mannix. The hands 
are beginning to run to you for everything—and it won t 
do, Crosby, by jove it won’t do” in a burst of well simu¬ 
lated frankness, “we simply can t afford to keep a man 
in a confidential situation—which yours is now—” with 
keen flattery— “who still feels he owes something to the 
hands, now honestly, can we?” with another hypocritical 
outburst of pretended candor and well wishing. It was 
like a bolt out of a clear sky, yet despite almost reeling 
under the impact, Val, shook his head in stubborn re¬ 
flection. 

“If yer want t’make a goat outer me—” Coggeshall 
restrained him with a quick gesture. 

“There will be nothing of the Mannix deal for you— 
haven’t I said so?” he pleaded and the honest souled 
workman was forced to assent. “We are not going to 
punish you for your fealty to your own people” suavely, 
“we are going to elevate you above them.” He pulled out 
his watch as if checking off the precious moments he had 
alloted himself for this interview. 

“Y’say its a raise—money an’ place—away from here?” 
still clinging to old time timidity in the face of good 
fortune, still shocked at the magnitude of the offer. 

“Yes, yes, certainly” now beginning to be pleased with 
his progress, “we’ll send you to Sebatus and give you 
ninety a month.” 

Poor Val! Yesterday his first emotion would have been 
one of joy that he and Bridget could get married at once— 
today it meant the snapping of even the slender thread that 
bound him to his future hopes. But he was as quick to 
sense the benefits of the removal—he could thus take her 
at her word and fleeing her tormenting presence let her 
fight out her dubious tendencies as she saw fit; his face 
grew paler and he bit his lips in the swift cogitation. 

“A’right” he assented finally with a despairing gesture 
and evidence of pathetic resignation that awoke no com¬ 
punction in the breast of the author. He stifled his grati¬ 
fication at the easy victory under a mass of pretty phrases 
and bland good wishes. 

“That’s settled. Suppose you take the train into the City 
and catch the Portland boat out at six?” with a non- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


227 


chalance that fairly rocked the youngster unused to such 
vast traveling; but Val Crosby was game and his word 
once given was sacredly kept—he was not the ticket to 
back out. 

“A’right” he assented again, “I’ll knock off at noon.” 
Which he did; he told nobody of the affair but 
his mother who of course told nobody but those that came 
within reach of her voice—which occasioned many sessions 
over the back yard fences that day and much screaming 
through mouthfuls of clothespins. Instantly she began to 
erect a brown stone front for herself in the Back Bay. No, 
no, he wasn’t goin’ t’marry afure he wint—mebbe he’d 
never marry—dear, dear, ’twas so har-rd t’find a good, 
clean, respectable girl these days—musha, who knows 
what’ll happen, aint th’Down East full o’ fine rich gir’rls? 
Thrue enough—thrue enough, they’re close —but thin a man 
wants a woman t’save some o’ his wages—with a reproach¬ 
ful look about her at the easy spenders of the neighbor¬ 
hood that abashed them in mingled wrath and guilt. All of 
which, luckily, escaped the sensible Val. 

Swiftly the news seeped into the Mill and through it, 
eventually found its way to Bridget. There was an instant 
of appalling blackness, a sensation of fainting, a fierce 
wish to again fling herself in the seclusion of her room 
for a secret torrent—then a gradual revival, a coming to 
herself numbly but determinedly—this was no manifesta¬ 
tion for a woman of the world who had chosen a rugged 
and unfrequented path through life! Not only that—his 
parting shot rankled, even though she was forced to 
confess to herself that it was a natural and reasonable 
suspicion, the insinuation that she was more loyal to 
Coggeshall than to her own people. And now the first 
parting was to take place. 

Larry met Val at the station as he was about to take 
the four o’clock express and to this warm hearted and 
genial fellow the outcast told more than he dared to con¬ 
fide to any one else—what he didn’t tell, Larry shrewdly 
guessed. The reflection that his kindly young employer 
had ulterior motives in thus disposing of a leader of the 
men far from the atmosphere in which he had been bred 
and nourished was no Balm of Gilead to the soul of the 



228 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

sympathetic Larry; oh, no, it wasn’t very clever in such 
a grand young man as Winthrop Coggeshall to stoop to 
this form of revenge on the lowly hands; he shook his 
head often and drearily as he wended his way to the shop 
where he had left the black to be shod. 

Impatiently cutting short the garrulity of the old horse 
shoer, eager to talk with anyone connected with the “qual¬ 
ity”—a series of gossip infinitely worse than that harshly 
connected with the female gatherings—he started back 
leading the restless and mettlesome steed by the halter, 
meeting Fleetley on the road. He broke the news to him 
—reserving his suspicion to himself however. 

“ ‘One by one the leaves are falling’ ” chanted Fleetley 
with a grin that left no doubt in the mind of Larry that 
his suspicions were already shared. 

“What d yer mane?” innocently as he tugged at the strap 
keeping the beast in check. 

“Simply that—‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ ” 
and he went on his way whistling absently—it being a 
bare possibility that his mind was a trifle too taken up 
with a certain magnificent beauty on the hill to permit its 
being monopolized by sympathy for other lovers. 

“Larry” Coggeshall demanded lazily as after supper he 
leaned back comfortably in his easy chair and extended 
his hand for the lighted match Larry held out, “who’s 
vice president of the men’s union at the Mill now?” Larry 
felt a strange tug at his heart but he answered quietly. 

“Skip Blake, sor.” 

“Um-hm, right, quite right—Blake of course—I’d for¬ 
gotten—wool sorter, I believe?” Larry nodded sourly 
and prepared the materials for a drinking event. 

“Yes—an’ Chief Mate in th’ Shenannigan Club—savin’ 
per prisince” crossly. Coggeshall held the Cognac to the 
light a moment, sipped, took up the evening paper, but 
frowned at it rather than read; Larry’s contempt just 
suited him—it simply meant that any of the hands not 
favored by him was just the one for any dirty work he 
might contemplate. But he refused to enlighten the mysti¬ 
fied Larry to any greater extent, although he hung about 
him just as Malachi had clung in the morning, hoping 
prayerfully for an expression of what was being conjured 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


229 


behind those inscrutable lids—but the super was lost in 
his own thoughts tonight—it was a situation sufficiently 
well known to the sapient fellow to keep him from at¬ 
tempting to intrude. 

He had (he reflected as he drank) shut out of the com¬ 
munity one prominent disturber; perhaps Fleetley would 
be the next one so honored; then Father O’Connor would 
he the object of his gentle ministrations—at which pleas¬ 
ing reflection his eyes narrowed to a wicked slit, his nos¬ 
trils dilated, an ugly white line drew beside them and his 
perfect, gleaming teeth snapped together like the fangs of 
a wolf. 

Clearly, mingled with the placid, judicial blood of the 
Puritan, there were the corpuscles of insane anger and 
desire to he avenged, incubated in the Irish womb; there 
came to the surface that hopeless trait of the Gael—the 
predilection to permit one hap hazard, harsh matter to 
blot out all thoughts of real worth and past kindness. 
That the priest was in the right and was generous and 
magnanimous in his conduct since the affair, that it had 
terminated best for all concerned, was crushed by that hide¬ 
ous process of reasoning of which the unfortunate Celt is 
the victim ; he construed the desire to get even as of the 
primest importance, neglecting to observe that victory would 
be swallowed up in contempt for a recrudescence of the 
affair in the minds of all fair minded people—Hugh 
Craigie amongst them. 

There was the yearning of humbled pride and desecrated 
human respect to be avenged at any cost—and every 
thought of the simple minded young priest toiling peace¬ 
fully and incessantly amidst a turbulent, fractious parish, 
merely caused a tide of hatred to surge through his veins, 
approximating a form of insanity because of his very 
sincerity and, single mindedness. Winthrop Coggeshall 
was not a good loser; even now he had outlined crude 
forms of a plot that was to be the cap sheaf of villainy 
contemplated ever since the day he imagined he had been 
thwarted. 


230 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXL 

Despite the fresh muddle, Larry still bent himself de¬ 
terminedly to his labor of love; the more hopeless it 
semed the more persistent he in his effort to dissipate the 
veil of moodiness enshrouding the retired life of Cogges- 
hall. Of course his emotions became more and more 
confused as he noted the progress of the affair with Miss 
Colquhoun, for, while he recognized it as sufficiently unique 
in the strange life of the young aristocrat and tended to 
take his mind off more morbid phases, he began to dread 
the reaction of a disappointment—or worse—or a union 
with none of the more binding qualities than had signal¬ 
ized that of his parents. “Then You’ll Remember” wailed 
soberly over and over, evening and morning as Larry 
puckered his brow in cogitation as to the next move to be 
made to locate the lost brother—a consummation now all 
the more to be wished that it might redeem Coggeshall 
from the blandishments and allurements of a woman’s love. 
From which reflection one might gain a pretty fair in¬ 
sight as to the value of physical sexual attraction in the 
eyes of the supremely serene Mr. Coleman. 

Coggeshall’s devotion had now become—to the grief, 
dismay and anger of many a Puritan virgin in the little 
semi-social town—open, above board and patent to all 
his friends; not that he himself presumed on the progress 
thus far attained to cajole himself into the belief that she 
entirely reciprocated, but he fell into the habit of a more 
regular dropping in on the old Mill owner—ostensibly to 
go over some intimate details of the work—a subterfuge 
wasted on the keen eyes and acute souls that observed it. 
Coggeshall never asked odds of any man—he was not 
going to beg favors of a woman now—he only insisted 
on her polite attention when he called, and he guaranteed 
himself that training and accomplishments would bring 
about the rest. Perhaps too, he (the wanderer) found 
the atmosphere of the Craigie mansion sufficiently cozy 
and home like to arouse new emotions, for while he chat- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


231 


ted with the Old Man, Grace, in that attitude by far the 
most alluring of the female species—domesticity—sat near, 
manifestedly interested, as an occasional word and sug¬ 
gestion proved, while she occupied herself with her fancy 
work; even as the lowlier Bridget might draw to herself 
admirers in the kitchen of the White home. It was all 
very encouraging to say the least, and the ever alert and 
handsome super flattered himself that he lent a distinguish¬ 
ed air even to the rehearsal of the crude and prosaic de¬ 
tails of mill work. 

Nor had he forgotten his determination to have the 
mysterious Fleetley investigated; word had been sent to 
a well known detective agency which caused a represen¬ 
tative to be employed in the same room with him and even 
to be elected to the union; the result of the investigation 
so far had been a report of the bewildering look of things 
to the British Consul in the City who, aroused to almost 
curiosity by the scraps of regal appearing stationery, 
promised also to have a look at the strange fellow. 

Neither was the scheme to regain the lost prestige of 
the strike ever relegated to oblivion, seeming rather to 
gain fresh impetus every time the topic cropped out in 
conversation with Grace or her uncle; she listened in a 
silence that bewildered Coggeshall for he never was quite 
able to plumb the depths of those inscrutable Scotch eyes; 
on the occasions he frankly pressed her for an opinion, 
she laughingly brushed him aside and took refuge in rally¬ 
ing her uncle or getting out her music, compensating him 
to some extent by her facile rendering of the latest popular 
favorites or an incursion into classics. Then it was the 
super permitted the Old Man's drone to go unanswered as, 
learning back hungrily regarding the alluring profile be¬ 
fore the instrument, he permitted his wits to go wool 
gathering in vagrant fields, depicting to himself a future 
alight with her presence and replete with her affection. 
Ah, those were happy days for the self centered lover 
and recent restive sociologist. 

One day Skip Blake, head wool sorter, was halted in 
his work in the sorter’s shed by the unexpected and un¬ 
desired presence of the runner, Malachi; he glared up at 
the intruder, the usual token of cheery warmth and bene- 



232 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

volent wishes for a torrid future always accorded that 
dearly hated personage by the entire Mill. 

“Will ye be busy afther hours?” Malachi whispered in 
hoarse privacy and public onion breath into the ear of 
Skip. Turning his cud over in his mouth before deign¬ 
ing a reply, he first accorded him a look of redoubled 
sourness—if that were possible. 

“I don’t know that that’s any of your ’ (let us omit an 
entire bar of qualifying adjectives here) “business,” with a 
reinforcing string of expletives that fell upon the ears 
of the receptive Malachi like a benediction, if one were 
to judge by the merry smile he affected. He grinned back 
in hypocritical acknowledgment of favors rendered. 

“Misther Coggeshall sez he’ll be in th’office —alone 9 
with what was meant for a sly and significant wink as 
he passed on. Mr. Blake was startled; this sudden in¬ 
terest of the super, with whom he had not exchanged a 
dozen words since his coming, started a train of thought 
in his not too clear brain; he was still deep in his secret 
pondering when the whistle blew. Even then he was not 
sure of himself or his course, yet he permitted his steps 
to drift awkwardly toward the office instead of to supper 
and finally caught himself shuffling through the domain 
of the bosses where, as if by accident, he espied the super 
seated at his desk. With a vast sigh of indecision and an 
apologetic cough he lagged in, although not bidden. 

“Ah, Blake?” regarding him with a well simulated air 
of abstraction, “you wish to see me?” carelessly pulling 
out his watch as if in warning that his time was precious 
and must not be encroached upon under any circumstances, 
mind that! Which clever action made the crude Mr. 
Blake a trifle more ill at ease and put the slow witted fel¬ 
low in a quandary that even the rolling of his massive 
chew of tobacco from cheek to cheek failed entirely to 
dissipate. As he really seemed incapable of utterance 
Coggeshall was forced to a sort of initiative, Skip not 
having wit enough to remind him of Malachi’s hint. “How 
are things with the men—you, I understand now have 
Crosby’s place with the union, have you not?” very graci¬ 
ously and evenly as he lit a cigar, puffed a long, fragrant 
cloud in the direction of Blake—as if to incense him— 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


233 


and rocked carelessly in his swivel chair. Skip rid his 
mouth of its liquid impediment by a clever attack on the 
box of sand near the desk and after triumphantly regard¬ 
ing the scene of his endeavor a moment, felt emboldened 
to essay a rejoinder. 

“Sure—sure” in curt pleasure of his recognition as a 
leader—sort of a praise from Sir Hubert; “I was first 
vice president, y’know” twirling his soft hat in his deft 
fingers and trying to puzzle out what sort of impression 
that was making on the sphynx steadily regarding him. 

“What’s this strike talk I hear again?” in a soft purr 
that somehow reminded Skip of the gentle whir of an 
electric battery—which one is as incapable of letting go 
(when in operation) as he was of loosening his eyes from 
the accusing scrutiny of the super. “Sit down—sit down” 
affably which Skip did, very much as if he feared the 
chair was about to be pulled from beneath him by an 
unseen trick hand. Teetering on the edge of the chair 
he shrugged his brawny shoulders. 

“Y’c’n get an ear full o’anything these days” sullenly, 
on the defensive now and not relishing the fact that he had 
been decoyed into bearing the brunt of the super’s knowl¬ 
edge of talk that had begun to percolate ever since Val 
left town—nor neglecting to heap a mound of secret blas¬ 
phemies on the devoted head of the boss’s bell wether, 
Malachi. 

“Well” in sudden incisiveness, emphasizing every word 
with a finger shot in his direction, “I’m right here to 
tell you that they can have a strike any time they want 
it—that I’m no slouch if I do wear a slouch hat—do you 
get that?” which the poor, beguiled Skip certainly did 
if his blank, crestfallen features were any indication. 
“But I should think an old hand like you too wise for 
any such monkey shines” he went on with mollifying suave¬ 
ness. 

“We’ve got t’stick t’gether” as he threatened to annihilate 
his old felt lid between his energetic fingers. 

“No you haven’t” with a deep meaning in his tone that 
even the blunt Skip could sense, “no, you haven t—you 
stick to me—and you’ll land right side up with care.” He 
was reading the inert shape before him with the eye of a 


234 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

connoisseur. “Now Blake, you’re not working in the 
Mill for your health, are you?” Blake’s eyes twinkled 
in recognition of that joke. 

“Not on your tin type” he snarled—then grinned. 

“Then suppose you and I go into a little union of our 

O 95 

own: 

“Huh?” with wide opened eyes, and coming erect on 
his chair. 

“Let’s do a little business on the side” quietly, “you 
furnish the experience and I’ll furnish—” a long, impres¬ 
sive pause—“the money” softly; “merely to see that the 
owners don’t get the short end of the bargain—are you 
on?” Skip licked his lips in comical indecision and dis¬ 
may. 

“I don’t quite twig yer lingo” he muttered finally, not 
relishing his very equivocal situation. 

“You lie—you do” very emphatically and significantly; 
“you don’t need to be mealy mouthed with me” and Mr. 
Blake rather confessed to his torn soul that it wouldn’t 
be healthy. “Now I understand you have a great influ¬ 
ence with the hands so you are precisely the man I want 
to do business with. Of course I’m ready to pay for all 
goods delivered—understand that?” which to do him jus¬ 
tice he did. He slowly came to his feet, shifting from one 
foot to the other, his eyes rolling in a frenzy of internal 
debate. Had he been strictly square—which the wily 
Coggeshall had assured himself he was not—he would have 
turned on his heel and quitted the office with a contemptu¬ 
ous offer to refer the matter to the union; that’s what 
Val or Fleetley would have done and the super patiently 
awaited the decision. 

“Yes” he growled sullenly, after taking his own sweet 
time, “ ‘a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse’.” 
Coggeshall now motioned him to draw his chair to con¬ 
fidential distance and they put their heads together. 

“All right” crisply. Then moderating his tone so that 
no chance passer in the hallway could detect an incrimin¬ 
ating word he spoke. “You men are at the mercy of the 
Catholics since the morning the priest talked to the strike 
breakers, do you know that?” Really, up to that moment 
the treasonable Skip had no inkling of such a fearful 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


235 


condition of affairs, but now that it was put to him in this 
manner and under these circumstances he fancied he could 
detect traces of the hand of Rome all about him; which 
proves how easily a bright man may have his eyes opened. 

“I’m on” he growled with what was intended for a wise 
wink and which confirmed the astute super in the belief 
that he had made no mistake in picking his tool. 

“Precisely” with a look that might have been intended 
to indicate appreciation—and then again might have stood 
for contempt—the shallow pate before him was no judge 
of mere expression. “The Catholics are feathering their 
nests at the expense of you innocent men.” Which, when 
Skip came to recall the preponderance of Catholics among 
the men brave enough to strike for industrial freedom, 
looked very plausible—they must by very force of num¬ 
bers have some deep and hidden design in striking, oho! 
“Perhaps you are wondering why / should take the trouble 
to reveal this” which, in a second or two of enlightenment 
was the very thing the dupe was wondering. “Well” in a 
burst of pretended candor, “there’s an election coming off 
shortly and we want to see that the proper men are put in— 
it is part of my plan to see that the Mill votes are proper¬ 
ly handled, see?” with the good old logic intended to blind 
and fool the toiler by setting religious and political creeds 
by the ears. • Poor, deluded Blake imagined he did see 
and nodded his head in pretended sage comprehension. 
Sure, the super was in favor of proper officials to run 
the town and this was the logical way to elect them. 
Though, just what was to be obtained by antagonizing his 
Catholic fellow workers was not quite apparent at this 
(or any other) time to the bigoted Skip. 

“All right so far” he conceded in a manner that left 
no doubt as to his entire complacency. Then came the 
startling denouncement. 

“Now then—I am ready and willing to hand over to 
you one thousand dollars to break up in any way you see 
fit the ruling spirit of the union.” Blake gasped and 
opened his mouth like a fish out of water—he didn’t think 
there was that much money in Fern Park. “You under¬ 
stand what I mean” and he flashed a roll of bills in 
emphasis—” get those fellows who are running the union 


236 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

with the help of the Church out and this will all be yours” 
saying which, after having sufficiently refreshed his eyes 
with the green foliage, he thrust the roll back and in¬ 
dicated that the interview was over. 

As the poor tool sneaked out of the office—too overcome 
even to swear at Malachi, leering knowingly at him from 
a dusky corner—in the gloom of the evening—he hadn’t 
sense enough to realize that this was simply the entering 
wedge in the affairs of a union that had successfully com¬ 
batted the owners; once let the hot headed men of the many 
religious shades and nationalities get it into their brain 
that religion and politics were in the air—and farewell af¬ 
filiation for the workers. Even potentates had not scorn¬ 
ed to employ the same means from the time of Christ 
down, to stir up confusion and dissension among a people 
impervious to their cruelty otherwise, and it spoke highly 
for Coggeshall’s acumen and knowledge of human nature 
thus to draw to his side a force that would not only dis¬ 
integrate the rebellion among the common herd but would 
be a slashing blow for the innocent Father O’Connor; the 
latter being in the contest merely as a right minded citi¬ 
zen aflame with a desire for economic justice and a strong 
sense of political right. Well might the keen Coggeshall 
laugh and jubilate that night over his Cognac. 

Had Fleetley been a Catholic much that transpired after 
that could have been forestalled, for a skeleton of the 
import of the super’s latest move sifted to him through 
Grace in the course of their casual meetings, but indif¬ 
ferent as he was to all religions he saw in the veiled hints 
merely a slam at Father O’Connor for his interference 
and he wasn’t sufficiently interested in the Church or its 
ministers to intervene actively. Still, the gravity of the 
situation began to grow upon him during the remarks 
she let fall, words (that innocent enough to her) were 
fraught with bitter possibilities in his more sophisticated 
ears, concerning situations in the rank and file of the union 
which made him marvel that it could have got outside 
the meetings; what her source of information, beyond 
Coggeshall, he was unable to determine, for that smooth 
individual took no pains to reveal it even to the Old Man; 
Lance felt himself too delicately situated as regarded their 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


237 


intimacy to ply her with questions that bringing in the 
superintendent might lead Grace to take offense at the 
welcome guest of her uncle. Thus, precisely as Cogges- 
hall had proved to himself once upon a time—women 
were (innocently or otherwise) pretty much at the bottom 
of the world’s social entanglements. 

And poor little Bridget, the victim of circumstances, 
drooped visibly; noting it Grace came oftener to the 
office for a few delightful moments to recompense one who 
had unwittingly conferred so much happiness on her in 
making intercourse with the handsome Fleetley possible. 
So very much occupied indeed did she become with the 
altered condition of the sorrowing girl that she determined 
to trespass on friendship and wring from her if possible 
the occasion of her unusual gloom; with which object in 
mind she called at the office toward the close of a clear, 
cold day when about eighteen inches of snow lay heavily 
on the earth and forcing her to turn her work over to 
another clerk, haled her out to the cutter; wrapping her 
up well in the robes (for the falling night was beginning 
to grow bitter) they slid over the glassy ruts to the sur¬ 
rounding speedways. Just a segment of the winter sun 
remaining above the hills stared them in the face while up 
above it the sky ranged from red to pink to steely gray 
with a frostiness that struck to the very heart. But they 
heeded it not as the mare strode firmly along in the direc¬ 
tion of the hills standing stark and bleak under the frozen 
shroud; all about them came the cries of the children, 
skating, sliding and coasting, happy in the ignorance of 
childhood, that only knows its meals and comfortable 
clothing come from somewhere and little reckoning the 
worry and pain incidental to their accomplishment. Once 
ip the solitude of the hills she permitted the horse to drop 
into a walk. 

“Now, Bridget” she demanded in her masterful way 
after a few commonplaces, “what part did you have in 
Val’s sudden departure?” Bridget looked up at the regal 
beauty beside her in a half frightened manner and then 
set herself stubbornly to deny everything. 

“Oh, he got a better job—” 

“Tell that to the marines—” 


238 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“And he found a pleasanter town than Fern Park I—I 
guess” lamely and with a toss of the head meant to be 
very haughty and indifferent. Grace pursed her lips 
and shook her head. 

“That is too thin Bridget—it takes more than that to 
wean a man away from the girl he loves—” 

“How do you know he loves me?” she cried, tears in 
her voice. 

“Because I’m neither deaf nor blind” decidedly, then 
whipped up the ready mare again; suddenly Bridget buried 
her face in her muff and her body throbbed with sob¬ 
bing. “Have you heard from him since he left?” very 
tenderly. 

“No-o” she sobbed, bitterly, “not a word.” 

“Have you written?” A shake of the head. “So you 
see I am right, you have had trouble and I want to know 
what it is—come now, dear” and thus conjured, with a 
heart filled to overflowing with what she dared not reveal 
outside Confession, Bridget, faltering, slowly, pitifully, 
told the story—wisely and truly dating it back to the first 
conversation with Coggeshall. During the tragic recital, 
Grace, keeping a firm rein on the mettlesome beast, main¬ 
tained an ominous silence, an occasional flash of the eye 
and a compression of the full lips revealing the impres¬ 
sion the sordid tale made on her sympathetic heart. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been such a goose dear” she sighed 
after a long consideration of the story, when the other 
finished; Bridget looked into the strong face with peni¬ 
tence written on hers. 

“I have been a fool, haven’t I?” she demanded meekly. 

“You certainly have” she agreed sharply. “Why—what 
in the world is there better for a woman than the love of 
a good man? What is the use of a female trying to 
escape herself, Bridget? What takes the place of an af¬ 
fection for which we are constrained to desert the very 
parent that brought us into being and has never wavered 
for a second in devotion for us? Just stop and consider 
that a moment.” Then ensued a long pause, during which 
Bridget turned that cogent explanation of the sex question 
in her simple mind. 

“And do you too feel that way about love Miss Col- 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


239 


quhoun?” she asked finally, in timid unbelief; rather taken 
unawares Grace blushed and laughed at that direct ques¬ 
tion. 

“Certainly dear—how could I have explained it to you 
so clearly if I didn’t?” she laughed. 

“Do you feel that way toward Mr. Coggeshall?”— 

“To tell the truth I have scarcely figured him in the 
hypothesis” she rejoined very placidly—perhaps too ur¬ 
banely and unemotionally for the future happiness and 
peace of mind of the egoistic super. 

“But he likes you.” 

“That admits of no argument—come on Rose” to the 
mare. 

“And don’t you intend to marry him?” with a deliberate 
cross question that made the other smile despite her at¬ 
tempt at coldness. 

“I don’t know—candidly, I haven’t considered him in 
the light of a candidate” with a laughing excuse that was 
strictly true. 

“But why haven’t you—the same as I have Val?” as if 
the candidacy must be of different nature from this. 

“Because—because I have been too busy thinking about 
—well about, let us say for argument, Mr. Fleetley, Paul 
Pry” and even his name brought no tell tale flush to her 
soft features. 

“Oh” not knowing what to say to such a remarkable 
admission. 

“Nor have I made up my mind about him either—as 
you have about Mr. Crosby” teasingly; at which Bridget 
fell to crying again softly. 

“What do you advise me to do?” she quavered finally 
as they headed back for the lights of the town, past the 
gleaming windows of the factories, past the frozen ponds 
and river, past the groups of children scurrying home to 
perform, ere the homecoming of the male parent, the 
chores that should have been done in the daylight after 
school. 

“You are at fault—you should acknowledge it and beg 
his pardon.” 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t—” 

“You must—I insist—” 



240 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“But what will he think of me?” 

“Think?” and her happy laughter caused those about 
them to turn to listen. “Why, that you are a very loving 
little soul and well worth forgiving.” Bridget laughed 
back in relief, the laugh of a tickled child, at the solving 
of the miserable problem. That he must acknowledge her 
petition when she was no more in the wrong in a sense 
than he, seemed inevitable to the innocent little heart all 
unacustomed to the fickle one of man. 

“Do you think he will come back?” and she thought 
of the gossiping, bragging mother filling the neighborhood 
with Val’s brilliant prospects away from the common 
trash of Fern Park. 

“Of course” with a sage nod. 

“But if he shouldn’t—” her eyes brimming again in 
soft doubt. 

“A life’s happiness is well worth the risk—and the 
woman who won’t take a chance in love is going to find 
herself on the shelf eventually. Besides” with the first 
practical note in her voice, “he is needed here very badly 
right now.” Bridget shivered in comprehension. 

“Pm afraid so.” 

“There is much being fostered that he alone can put off.” 
They came to the street leading to Bridget’s home and 
she alighted. “Now” leaning over the side of the cutter 
after readjusting the robes, “tell him that you have been 
misled in your estimate of what goes to make up life and 
that you want him back not only for your happiness but 
for the safety of the men. Good night” and with a merry 
jangling of bells she disappeared. 

Bridget did write that night, a sweet, penitent letter, the 
outpouring of an innocent heart running riot in its love 
for the being on whom it had settled—and there is nothing 
in this sordid world to compare with the love of a pure 
woman, that being destined to be the treasure house of the 
soul destined to bask one day in the light of the very 
Throne of Grace itself. She abjectly admitted that in 
renouncing her love for him she had been wrong; while 
refusing to mention Coggeshall’s share in that decision,, 
she was sorry, she was ready to perform penance, she only 
insisted that he come back to help the men she had un- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


241 


wittingly injured in driving away their leader. Then she 
waited in ill concealed impatience the happy answer. 

It came—but it was as a breath from the charnel house 
to the soul of the hapless girl; there was one sentence that 
sent the blood pounding back on her heart, that fairly 
made her reel, that sickened soul and body as her pure 
mind sought to conjure Val—the hero of her dreams— 
insinuating such a thing. It was crushing. It cost her a 
day at the office, she could not bear to sit there filled with 
the thoughts brought up by the sight of the suave Cogges- 
hal, the author of her misery. In a vague way she had 
begun to connect him with all the misunderstanding—had 
she known that the wording of the letter from Val was 
suggested in a communication Coggeshall had caused to be 
sent him after his flight she would have had it brought 
home to her indubitably that the interest of the wily super 
in the affairs of the Mill hands and his enemies was very 
concrete—that while in his vicinity she had no more 
chance than the lamb in the forest with the wolf. 

She made the circumstance a matter of Confession; then 
from a timid, shrinking girl Bridget White was convert¬ 
ed into a moody, silent, embittered woman. It was as if 
Val had rolled back a vast curtain to reveal a vista that 
she instinctively knew existed, but whose bare outlines 
and repellant shape she could not sense until actually 
brought face to face with it. It was a never dying shock. 
Coggeshall was doing his work very well. 



242 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXII. 

, Larry reported in a vague way to his cronies in the shop 
the trend of affairs of late, reserving all that he thought 
detrimental to the finer sensibilities of Winthop, yet desir¬ 
ous of obtaining a measure of advice from the judicial 
Mike—in which commodity indeed, he fairly revelled— 
although if we are to take the word of the cynical Mr. 
Flanigan the surest way to benefit by Mike’s advice was 
not to follow it, which morbid aspersion the dignified Mr. 
Allen ignored with the calloused scorn of age and experi¬ 
ence. More than that, the comradeship was something to 
be cherished, especially after having an overdose of the 
somewhat morose and abstracted Coggeshall. 

“Th’Union’ll go t’tlTdawgs now that Val’s out o’it” 
sighed Mike who, “Never cud see anything in that omaud- 
haun of a Skip.” At which observation the little cobbler 
poured himself another liberal libation of pegs and sadly 
shaking his shock head in unison, pegged away with a 
vigor and ferocity that suggested the thought he imagined 
he had Skip’s head between his knees, rather than the 
sole. His good woman, still surrounded by the pledges 
of devotion to her liege lord and society in general, sug¬ 
gesting furthermore his reason for overtime in his shop, 
appeared in the doorway as usual, from which retreat she 
cast the eye of cheery good nature over the welcome in¬ 
truders. 

“He walks that proud an' straight” Larry went on in con¬ 
demnation of the new president, “he’s like t’fall over back¬ 
ward some day!” Mike sniffed bitterly. 

“ ‘Parvum parva decent ’ ” in scornful crypticism, “which 
bein’ freely thranslated is, as ye might say, ‘Hot winds 
make th’toy balloon’.” A harsh jangling of sleigh bells 
from the outside at that moment caused the eyes of all to 
look to the snowy road in time to see a sleigh compounded 
of a hack body and “pung” runners driven by the livery- 
stable Jehu, pull up before the shop; out of it stepped 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


243 


clumsily a burly but athletic body that gingerly picked its 
far from nimble way over the crusted snow while his 
travelling companion, after showing the tip of a very red 
nose and a piercing eye above an arched, blonde mus¬ 
tache, quickly eclipsed himself under the immense robes 
in the body of the converted hack. The new comer crossed 
the porch, threw open the door and with a cheery “Good 
mornin’ sirs” looked about him at the occupants. 

“Mornin’ t’you sor” was the chorused response and em¬ 
boldened by it he advanced further into the heated room. 
They saw a man who despite his evident years was still 
hale and hearty with the typical flush in his very English 
features framed in their very English mutton chop whis¬ 
kers, while his voice was full and throaty as opposed to 
the Yankee twang. 

“Which road gen’lmen” in well defined English accent, 
“should we tike f’r th’Rookery—I believe that’s th’name 
o’th’institootion?” Mike quickly proffered the necessary 
instructions during which the stranger stepped to the ruddy 
fire in the middle of the room; right in the midst of his 
thanks and animadversions on the bitter weather his eye 
fell upon Larry, reflectively pulling on his pipe from his 
bench across the room. 

“Bless me—God bless me!” he emphasized as he stopped 
to peer more closely into the placid features, “H’is it me 
h’old acquaintance?” Thus strangely appealed to, Larry 
looked up incuriously at the stranger. 

“Was ye spakin’ t’me sor?” knocking the ashes from 
his pipe; he extended his hand with a broad grin of recog¬ 
nition. 

“An’ don’t ye know me, Billocter y’know, Ashburton 
Place—God bless me soul, don’t sye ye don’t know me!” 
with a violence that suggested he would take it as a dreadful 
affront not to recognize him; Larry flushed in an em¬ 
barrassed manner. 

“Why—t’tell th’truth sor, yer face does seem familiar—” 

“An’ your th’green’orn—him as brought th’bebby ’ome 
t’Ashburton Place—” that was enough, as instantly there 
were conjured visions of the majestic footman who had 
taken him into the kitchen, ostensibly to inject grateful 


244 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


refreshment, but really to extract grateful information, 
concerning the return of the prodigal Nehemiah. Then en¬ 
sued moments of rapturous hand shaking and hearty back 
slapping that being confined to the pair made the ex¬ 
traneous Mike undergo tortures at being thus summarily 
side tracked. 

“Well, tibbe sure, tibbe sure” Billocter uttered over and 
over again until he finally seemed to think of his original 
errand and winked significantly at the radiant Larry. “Cud 
I ’ave a word wi’you on th’outside, sir?” which was ac¬ 
corded him, to the unutterable woe of the abashed Mike. 

“Well sor, ’tis a cure f’r sore eyes t’see you” Larry 
laughed as he again gripped hands with this strange link 
out of a dim past. 

“Now then” he confided in a hoarse Tom and Jerry 
whisper, “hTve a little sommat h’l wish yer’d keep be¬ 
tween yer teeth.” Larry nodded in comprehension. “H is 
there such a h’individual at th’Rookery—rum nime, eh, 
eh?—as Lance Fleetley?” with a cautious “Between man 
and man”, air. 

“Why, t’be sure” Larry responded wonderingly, “he 
works in th’Craigie Mill—” 

“Ah—quite so” with a succession of sly nods and winks 
meant to impress Larry with the fact that he was aware of 
it all the time but threw out the question to see to what 
extent Larry comprehended the strange fact. “We”—with 
a sweep of the hand that took in something—probably 
the red nose and the blonde mustache, Larry thought 
vaguely, in the depths of the hack—“we ’ave a little 
private business wi’ Mr. Fleetley.” 

“An’th’nature, might I ask?” Larry enquired with such 
bland unconcern that the other disregarded any instruc¬ 
tions he might have had to the contrary and proceeded 
to throw out a few mysterious, frosty hints. 

“A mysterious disappearance” he hoarsely proffered, 
“The’British Consul in th’City got wind h’of a stringer 
’earabouts h’ahnswerin th’description h’of a man badly 
wanted h’over th’water, an’ knowin’ my h’intimate acquain¬ 
tance due t’ me many yahs o’ sarvice h’in h’America” with 
pardonable expansion of the chest at that, “e detiled me 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


245 


t elp th’solicitor sent h’over fr’m h’England t’look ’m h’up. 
We h’are h’after Mr. Fleetley.” Larry started in amaze¬ 
ment—then the stories of the Mysterious Lance were not 
mythical after all! 

“I hope ’ he said sincerely after recovering from the 
shock, “that it means good t’that young man f’r a finer 
nor dacenter never trod shoe leather.” Again Mr. Billoc- 
ter grasped his hand. 

“Me good feller, permit me t’h’assure you” as grandly 
as if he had been commanded to make the assurance by 
Her Gracious Majesty herself, “that nothin’ but good c’n 
come o’ ’is being discovered.” Thus assured Larry smiled 
his relief. 

“I’m proud t’hear that sor—an’ what’re ye doin’ now 
Mr. Billocter?” 

“W’y, hTm married” precisely as if that were an action 
rather than a state, “an’ me an’ th’missus ’ave a bit o’a 
plice h’in Cove Plice—just h’off Cove Street, right h’over 
against th’Old Colony—” but in the midst of his directions 
an erruption became visible among the robes. The red 
tipped nose and the blonde mustache and the steely eye 
exuded from the depths of the hack, while out of the chasm 
of fur collars and mufflers and robes issued a wail com¬ 
pounded of a bleat and a gasping cough. 

“Billocter, oh I say me good fellow” in plaintive ac¬ 
cents, “let us be getting on me good fellow, it’s jolly 
bitter cold y’know.” Billocter acknowledged the justice of 
the complaint by turning and touching the rim of his fur 
cap, respectfully. 

“Very well, sir, h’in a moment sir—h’l met an’ ole 
frien’ sir—an’ now” to Larry again, “’ow are you knockin’ 
’em?” Larry grinned. 

“Over th’ropes. Y’ll never guess” with a violent and 
facetious dig in the ribs of the dignified Billocter, “who 
I’m wor-rkin’ f’r now?” He shook his head in futility of 
even venturing a guess. “Misther Coggeshall himsel’ ” and 
then explained to the wondering ex-butler the circumstances 
leading up thereto. Before it was finished there sounded 
again the pitiful plaint from the ice marooned one—for 
which the driver, pretty well fortified against the frost by 


246 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the “something hot” Billocter had furnished him during the 
ride from the City, had a running stream of sarcastic com¬ 
ments, and a wealth of withering looks. 

“Come, come I say Billocter me good fellow, let us 
be on our way—I’m freezing, really.” Again the respect¬ 
ful Billocter acknowledged his woe by a touch of the cap 
rim. 

“Quite so, sir, just a moment, sir” and to Larry, “y’ll 
c’m in an’ look h’us h’up won’t yer, that’s a good sort, 
c’m.” There arose another muffled wail from the hack 
depths, reinforced by the impatient driver, who begged 
Billocter to save him the trouble of driving to his funeral 
by getting in and on. Which he was about to do when 
Larry gripped him suddenly. 

“Name o’ God—one second” he grasped. “Did j’ever 
hear—was there any wor’rd—o’th’other—child? ’ Billocter 
nodded. 

“Why t’be sure—th’woman that kep’ 'im kem t’th’ouse 

f 5 55 

r money— 

“My God—is he alive?” He shook his head. 

“That h’l can’t sye—h’l aint seen im since ’e was a 
nussin’ bebby—” 

“An’ y’don’t know—” 

“Nothin’ absolutely, since—” but again came the dole¬ 
ful wail from the tomb like hack accompanied by frantic 
oaths from the driver. “But c’m in an’ we’ll talk it h’over 
—good bye” and with a fresh grip he broke away, waddled 
to the hack, crept into the cache of the frozen one and with 
a final wave of the hand was off. 

And while the merry bells jingled onward Larry stood 
as if turned to an icicle. His face paled under the winter 
pinched purple—who could give a better account than 
his recent guest? Why had he not thought of him be¬ 
fore? Why hadn’t he remembered that the woman who 
had taken the child would eventually appeal to the grand¬ 
mother and the wise butler must know something of it? He 
communicated this fresh clue to the sapient Mike whose 
first bit of advice was prudent caution—not to confide his 
guess to Coggeshall for fear that it might be fruitless and 
only provoke bitter hopes. He made up his mind to look 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


247 


up the Billocter establishment the very next day, dropping 
in his excitement all thought of the quest for Fleetley. 

Christmas found the mill workers that year in better 
physical shape to enjoy its varied pleasures than for many 
a one past—with the single exception of the shadow of 
an impending strike hovering darkly over each threshold. 
For there were persistent rumors, that would not down, of 
antagonism of some sort originating in the Board, filmy, 
gauzy hints emanating from none knew where, and borne 
along so subtly as to defy contradiction or correction, 
rumors that under the leadership of such a one as Val 
would have been quickly traced and as quickly handled 
(one way or the other) but which were sullenly mouthed 
over by the saturnine Skip and his henchmen and sneer- 
ingly attributed to a certain section of the men. In vain 
Fleetley’s warnings at the meetings, in vain his protests 
against what looked like unwarranted strain on the toler¬ 
ance of the strangely silent Board, for he of course had 
no means of knowing that a surface defiance was just 
what Skip was trying to bring about to precipitate a disas¬ 
trous strike. 

Little wonder then that Christmas stockings were filled 
to the accompaniment of a prayer that God would be good 
to them the rest of the winter; how proud of his handi¬ 
work Coggeshall would have been could he but have seen 
the heart sickness among a suffering people caused by his 
short sighted desire for vengance, how satisfied to reflect 
that into each tiny stocking was breathed a prayer of 
despair and helplessness. Then again, it might have been 
a warning as to the outcome, as idealist and pragmatist, 
alike are too prone to underestimate the terriffic fighting 
force made of these little beings we have created; a love that 
goads and incites (even in the face of death itself) long 
after the inspiration, desire and hope that has manufactured 
action for oneself have been obliterated. And it may not 
have been idle talk when One in speaking of these little 
ones pictured the fate of the man scandalizing them. 

Fleetley pointed again and again to the fact that the 
first fight had been won only on a technicality as it were 
—it was no decisive finish contest—showed how the new 


248 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

super presumed on their falling back into the accustomed 
docility, once they had been lulled into fancied security 
with what they had obtained and not willing to risk any 
more—that Coggeshall’s well planned line of proceeding 
having been destroyed in a way not to be foreseen either 
by him or the hands, he had bowed to the appearance of 
defeat, merely that he might retreat to his base and plan 
a bolder and better attack next time. At which Skip cast 
uneasy glances toward his equally dazed partners. Fleet- 
ley made it pretty plain to the sanguine but short sighted 
toilers that under the urbane and affable exterior of the 
son of the Puritan there lingered a firm, dogged disposi¬ 
tion that brooked no interference with its ultimate object. 

The hot heads began to hoot at all that—behind his back 
at first, then so openly that news of it began to reach 
his ears regularly—which so filled him with despair he 
simply gave over argument and abandoned them to their 
own evil counsel—which was Skip—and ways. It might 
have been different indeed did they but become cognizant 
of the fact of his intelligence of the inside workings of 
the Board contracted during his convalescence by his in¬ 
timacy with Larry, not to mention the many innocent warn¬ 
ings let fall by Miss Colquhoun. Larry, while not aware 
of all that transpired in the meetings, gleaned enough to 
be able to state positively that the Old Man had determined 
to surrender his interests in the beloved Mill—“the pulse 
of his heart,” as the Irish expressed it—and retire, rather 
than yield another inch to the union; more—Coggeshall 
was growing restive for some reason or another, would at 
any moment hand in his resignation were it intimated that 
it would suit—which simply meant the turning over of 
the superintendency to some choice slave driver selected 
by the Board without the modifying efforts of the more 
humane Old Man. Combining this with the prospect of 
a dull winter for any reason whatever—it is little wonder 
that the sympathetic Fleetley felt a sickening of body and 
soul in noting the heedless throng of mill men and their 
wives crowding the shops, bent only on a happy observance 
of the one day in the year they abandoned themselves to 
mirth. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


249 


All this and much more surged through Larry’s brain 
as he started on his trip to the City for an interview with 
the former butler. Indissolubly linked as were his for¬ 
tunes with those of the Coggeshalls he could not escape 
dubious reflections as to his power to afford the young 
employer a happy or sad Christmas, in the confirmation or 
the shattering of his newly aroused hopes. That the fes¬ 
tival was always a pagan affair as far as Coggeshall was 
concerned never ceased to grieve the good Catholic—to have 
the son of an innocent young Irish girl worse than a 
heathen lay heavy on his heart night and day. He had 
been the recipient of many pressing invitations to dinner 
on that great day, but learning that his friend had no 
plans for it he refused all and settled himself to spend it 
with him. Kindly, big hearted, tender hearted, faithful son 
of the Gael! God bless your memory Larry—you are being 
blotted out in a materialistic world! 

Had he but known it Winthrop Coggeshall was also in 
the mire of a disturbing quondary; there was his absorb¬ 
ing devotion at the shrine of Grace; there was the impend¬ 
ing struggle with the hands; his bribing relations with the 
new president, Skip Blake; the wrecking of the union; 
and last but not least the arranging of a disgraceful cir¬ 
cumstance to humiliate Father O’Connor for whom he still 
cherished prudentially concealed, but none the less bitter 
intentions. All these things bore heavily on him, deepened 
perhaps in the prenatal influence of a distressed and 
despondent mother. At last he began to chafe under the 
routine of his prosaic existence—the dissipated tinge in his 
blood began to assert itself. He had had enough of life 
among the submerged portions of humanity. With the cares 
of the Mill obliterated and Grace his wife he promised 
himself (in many a rosy day dream) the long deferred 
trip about the world in his steam yacht—on his honey 
moon. Whatever wealth was due her as heir of Craigie 
melted into insignificance before the untouched millions of 
the old sea captain. 

Larry rode in on the Boston & Providence that crisp, 
biting winter morning and getting out at Park Square hur¬ 
ried across the teeming thoroughfare, pausing a moment 


250 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

in reverent admiration of Lincoln striking the shackles 
from the black figure crouching at his feet, wondering 
vaguely when another Lincoln would came to knock the 
shackles off the white slaves —just within the shadow of the 
sacred codfish, whence had issued such terrific denuncia¬ 
tions of black slavery by those whose descendants were 
now occupied in white—down narrow Elliot Street to Knee- 
land, fetching up eventually at the gloomy, black and 
morose Old Colony, sulkily brooding in the midst of pawn 
shops, gin mills, squalid tenements. Always came the roar 
of immense trucks over the flinty cobbles and creeping 
horse cars; there was a sour, salty sea flavor to the chill¬ 
ing mist mingling with the grime of the locomotives, out 
over the labyrinths of tracks and switches in the yards, 
but Larry was too engrossed to pause to note any of this 
as he eagerly trudged onward to the point indicated by 
Billocter. 

Turning finally into Cove Place with its fringe of alleys, 
forbidding tenements and cellar kitchens, haunts of misery 
and consumption, whence issued strong suggestions of wash¬ 
ing or cooking or reeking odor of some recessed kitchen 
bar room, the entire locality a swarm of white faced, 
pinched morsels of waif and stray humanity and neglected 
children, he at length saw number 17. 

The business place of the shrewd butler and th’missus 
gave no indication of an aristrocracy amongst its shrinking 
fellows, there being the same dingy shop window with its 
sickly pretense of the approaching season in a feeble hollv 
wreath or two hanging limply against the dirty pane, filled 
with its shabby, repulsive array of eatables or kitchen 
utensils, protected on the outside by a spiked iron rail 
that kept the too familiar drunk from reeling into the 
interior, while it offered a suitable support for the juveniles 
essaying the dislocating pleasure known as “skinning the 
cat.” The visible outlay comprised a few bunches of 
shamed looking vegetables, woeful pies, dyspeptic cakes, 
morose brown bread that on Saturday night and Sunday 
morning supported the succulent dish of beans, a mop and 
a broom—not to mention a delicacy known to the initiated 
as “dults”—the same being a variety of marine atrocity 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THF MOLD 251 

with a salt tea flavor, a taste for which was accomplished 
only after long and bitter practice—and which once ac¬ 
quired, makes the unhappy victim curse himself for the 
taste for the rest of his natural life. 

Passing through the door over which a huge gong jangled 
harsh warning of an impending customer he found himself 
in a typical low class grocery of the period. Everything 
—unlike politics—was open and above board for the scru¬ 
tiny of all, the eatables not only being easy of access to 
both customer and merchant, but to the summer dust and 
the winter grime, of the prevalent germs that killing us 
today, fairly nourished in the past; three barrels, vinegar, 
molasses and kerosene stood cheek by jowl in loving fami¬ 
liarity, affording the dispenser an opportunity to fill uten¬ 
sils with the different contents hastily and surely—only 
having to pause long enough in his progress from barrel 
to barrel to wipe on his trousers the sticky or oily result 
of contact with each. From the low ceiling hung in frank 
and unashamed publicity hams, strips of bacon and the 
stock food of the community, huge, flattened cod, roosting 
places in summer for flies and cockroaches and still gamier 
insects in winter. 

The rosy cheeked, trim little woman (whom Larry right¬ 
ly guessed to be the “missus”) measuring out flour behind 
the counter with one eye on the scales and another wary 
one on the urchin sliding up to the prune basket, paused 
long enough to smile at Larry, then indicate by a nod 
over her shoulder the room in the rear whence issued aro¬ 
matic odors of strong drink, stale tobacco and heating 
humanity as she said: 

“Mr. Billocter, sir? Back at the bar, sir” and thither 
Larry went. 

Pushing through the swinging door he stepped into that 
disappearing medium between decency and crime, the com¬ 
bined grocery and bar, where the wife too often mingled 
the purchase of necessities with the acquiring of wretched¬ 
ness for herself and hapless offspring; here he quickly 
spied his old acquaintance seated comfortably before a 
roaring fire, smoking his pipe placidly, with his hands 
thrust into his trousers pockets under his (originally) white 


252 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


apron, feeling the cheerful currency therein, while a loafer 
or two slouched in chairs opposite awaiting, in confiding 
calm, the arrival of the visitor amenable to the plea of 
thirsting, perishing humanity. With a start of surprise 
the proprietor recognized Larry over his shoulder and 
sprang to greet him while the hangers-on came erect with 
pitying entreaty oozing out of every besotted pore. 

“This Jiis a surprise ’ warmly shaking his hand, “not 
quite lookin’ f’r yer so soon, really, delighted y’know” and 
he sat down beside a table mottled with ring stains of 
beer mugs. 

“Well, I haven’t had an aisy minute since I saw ye yes- 
therdah” exclaimed Larry, but before he could explain him¬ 
self Billocter threw up a hospitable hand. 

“One moment—y’can’t talk with a dry throat, Coleman” 
he cried—being heartily supported in said sentiment by the 
gentlemen seated in great expectancy opposite, “an’ so— 
wut’ll it be?” 

“Why thin, ye might let me have a mug o’ porther” at 
mention of which delicious thirst quencher Billocter shook 
his head as if in trouble over the death of a dear friend. 

“An’ h’l wish h’l might join yer in it” he sighed, “but me 
doctor won’t let me taste h’it—h’l puts on flesh too fahst” 
he moaned, with another dreary sigh. “So h’I’ll ’ave t’tike 
me ’alf an’ ’alf” which he proceeded to draw with the 
porter, while the waiting bums seemed to show by their 
looks that either beverage would suit them. Seated by the 
table they clinked glasses and “here’s lukkin’ at ye” and 
“drink ’earty” from Billocter preceded the ceremony. 
Draining their glasses with each drop measured by the eyes 
of the loafers, they set them down and Larry wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand while a rub of the apron 
sufficed to make the host’s toilet. 

“Well, sor” from Larry as he chipped off his plug and 
ground the tobacco in his palms preparatory to inserting in 
the bowl his host offered, “t’think o’ ye being’th’very man 
I’ve wanted t’see—” gratefully. 

“Ah?” grunted Billocter out of the haze, “H’Lm sorry h’l 
’ad t’be in such a beastly ’urry—or rawther, ’e was” sourly. 

“What luck?” asked Larry. He shook his head solemnly. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


253 


“H’l dunno Coleman —’e saw this man Lancely—” 

“Fleetley”— 

“H’aye—Fleetley—but ’e never so much as told a 
word—” 

“D’ye tell me now?” in amazed indignation at the affront. 
He shook his head. 

“Well—let ’im keep h’it—wut was yer goin’t’ sye?” 

“Ye say ye saw th’baby alive?” he asked breathlessly. 
The other nodded. 

“She brought ’im t’th’ouse a few times—” 

“Glory be t’God!” exclaimed Larry fervently. 

“Now don’t get too bloody ’opeful Coleman” he caution¬ 
ed; “h’it was h’a long time ago—th’oman that took ’im th’ 
mornin’ th’Captain went awye—” 

“Her name?” 

“Margret—” 

“An’ her last name?” 

“H’l don’t know” at which Larry fairly groaned. 

“She kem t’th’ouse before th’ Captain wus killed—h’an 
’er future ’usband, Galvin I think wus ’is nime—” 

“I didn’t know she was married!” 

“W’en she med ’erself known we wus given h’orders t’ 
admit ’er. She got money reg’lar fr’m th’Madame ’till ’e 
wus killed, then—” he paused to relight his pipe. 

“Then?” breathlessly. 

“Th’sight h’of th’bebby drove th’Madame crazy—she 
h’ordered ’er fr’m th’ouse.” Larry almost sobbed—the piti¬ 
ful little orphan! 

“An’ yer never saw thim again?” Billocter made a wry 
face. 

“’E kem one dye—’e’d been drinkin’ an’ we’en ’e got ’eavy 
we ’ad some words.” “Words” being Billocter’s pale and 
unemotional description of an affair that bordered on a 
riot, having its inception in a claret bringing punch on his 
nose by the truculent Galvin, reciprocated with a crash of a 
water bottle on the Irishman’s adamantine thesaurus of wit; 
continued in a death grip waltz into the area, up the steps, 
across the pavement and into the gutter, where they were 
eventually pried apart by the united and herculean efforts 
of a passing Italian hand organ grinder, two herdic drivers 


254 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


and a policeman—escaping a trip in the Black Maria only 
through the personal appeal of the Madame herself, who 
compromised with the friendly aid by drinks around and 
appeased the ruffled guardian of the peace by purchasing 
a new uniform for him. “H’an” he concluded respectively, 
“h’l aint seen ’ide nor ’air of ’im fr’m that dye t’this.” 
Larry was baffled. 

Just then a tiny customer came into the place with a beer 
can nearly as big as himself and holding it up to Mrs. Bil- 
locter gave her her orders concerning it sharply. 

“Fi’ cents worth—an’mudder sez cut out th’collar, see? 
She aint payin’ fur suds, see? An’ charge it see?” all 
delivered in one breath and with a humor calculated to 
bring tears of pity to the eyes. Calmly ignoring directions 
that were thus abruptly delivered, in order to fend a disposi¬ 
tion to reject it altogether because of the “tick” clause, she 
filled the growler and handed it over the bar with the usual 
adornment of foam, the sight of which drove the tiny mes¬ 
senger into a frenzy. 

“Hey, cheese it” he wailed in shrill, childish criticism, 
“wut d’ yer take me fur hey? Hully gee, shell throw 
eighteen fits w’en she lamps this slop—didn’ I tell yer take 
a reef in th’bead?” all delivered to her back as she went 
quietly about waiting on another customer, serenely un¬ 
conscious of the bitter wailings of the affronted mite clear 
to the side walk where, however, he forgot his grief long 
enough to remove some of the traces of her mercenariness 
by plunging his face into the offending slop, wiping the 
foam off his lips as he ran along. 

“An’ ye can’t recall her name befure she married this 
Galvin?” with a dry throat. 

“No; h’l went down t’Fort ’Ill on me own account one 
dye t’see ’ow th’ poor little beggar was makin’ h’it—they 
wus gone/' Larry slammed a discouraged fist on the table. 

“Go/ie/” in unutterable woe. 

“Gone—t’Charlestown they tolt me.” 

“An’ ye never tried no more?” He shrugged his should¬ 
ers. 

“Wut wud be th’use?” He was up a blind alley again 
and Larry groaned as he sat staring into the cheerful fire. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


255 


The landlord looked hard at the empty glasses, but Larry 
was before him. 

“Have another glass wi’me—an’ mebbe yer frinds” in 
delicate notice of the shriveling beings “’d like a drop?” 
which belief was confirmed in a rush by them that almost 
overturned the bar. 

“Now w’ilst h’l was enquirin’ ” Billocter ran on as they 
sat over another glass, “some ’oman suggested that h’l go 
see th’undertiker—she said as ’ow th’wimmin that’d hur¬ 
ried th’mother’d be known t’im, see?” It was a straw, 
but the despairing Larry grasped at it. 

“ An’th’undertaker ? ” 

“Patrick O’Malley h’and Sons—’Anover Street—but th’ 
ole man ’is dead an’ gone these manny years—th’sons run 
th’plice.” That was as far as the willing and generous 
Billocter could go and after exacting a promise from Larry 
to drop in and report any progress as well as to be sociable, 
he let him go—to the sorrow of the loafers who saw good 
material thus spoiled. 

There was some hope left in the reflection that the child 
had survived the bad hours after birth—it had come of 
rugged ancestry and there was no reason to think it might 
not have survived to maturity. He had a hard time to quell 
the fierce desire to tell Coggeshall all he knew, indeed, 
had the topic been called to mind very vigorously by that 
worthy Larry might have given way to his sanguine tem¬ 
perament. For the super was in the throes of a mental 
struggle that put even the thought of regaining a relative 
out of his mind for the time being. On the whole, Larry 
decided the better policy would be to restrain himself and 
not drop even a hint of the progress made so far; he 
would at least wait until he had located the firm of O’Mal¬ 
ley and Sons and heard their story—provided they had one 
to tell. 


256 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Christmas, exteriorly cold and forbidding, interiorly 
warm and inviting to the soul, came to Fern Park as it 
came to the rest of the world, the wilds, the tropics, the 
barren wastes, the cultivated lands, the hovels of the poor 
and the mansions of the rich—bidding suffering and un¬ 
happy mankind lay aside its petty griefs for a moment and 
rejoice with the outcasts from the inns of Bethlehem that 
a Child had been born to lead and save men; forgotten for 
a brief interval the Mill, the strike, the pinching, the grind¬ 
ing, the vague morrow. As a child in the household 
lightens and illumines every corner so a Child in a manger 
made glow every dull corner of the grim earth. 
Father O’Connor had reserved some good Christmas news 
for the Masses that morning—Father Byrne, quite restored 
to health, was coming home very soon, anxious to be among 
his people again and as eager to lift off the young man’s 
shoulders the terrific burden as he was to be relieved. 
It had been an awful year for the young priest catapulted 
into a series of revolutionary movements—a year whose 
grim effects showed in strained features, knitted brows, 
occasional weary intonation in his sermons. It was all 
incompatible with health and youth. 

Yet not once did he complain of his lot, never did he 
grumble over the untoward reception in the exciting scenes 
with his beloved people, Christmas morning or any other. 
He occupied himself chiefly in two exhortations delivered 
with all the fervor of his eloquent soul—to prepare a fit¬ 
ting reception for the pastor who had unselfishly wrecked 
his health in worry for them and a common sense survey 
of the conditions that again threatened to disrupt relations 
with the Board and the owners. Over and over he conjured 
them by the memory of the gentle Jesus to endeavour to 
avoid friction with the rulers, assuring them, as had Fleet- 
ley, that the earlier victory was no indication of weakness 
or an intent on the part of the Board to offer further con- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


257 


cessions; being rather merely a spasmodic awakening from 
the apathetic injustices of other years; a condition indeed 
to which they might revert in case further unjust demands 
were made upon them. Agitators were at work among the 
men he was reliably informed—he begged them not to 
listen, but to be guided by the counsel of men who, like 
themselves, had everything to gain by prudence and every¬ 
thing to lose by rashness. 

This exhortation, coupled with the sober remonstrances 
of Fleetley (for whom they exhibited a respect next to that 
for Father O’Connor himself, and Val) put a stopper on 
much of the intemperate demands and hot headed counsel 
prevalent in some groups; but the traitorous Skip had al¬ 
ready aligned his clique and the benefit of organization— 
precisely as in politics—was soon made manifest in the ar¬ 
bitrary and cold blooded way in which he jammed through 
radical motions and encouraged revolutionary sentiments. 
It was as if he fed their souls with a sort of intoxicating 
beverage. It was now the dead of a severe winter, nobody 
was more than a week ahead of the grocer and landlord, 
they were struggling in the throes of timidity and in¬ 
decision, a condition that, outside of the uneasy hints and 
suggestions floating about, would have amounted to prac¬ 
tically nothing—but under half comprehended circum¬ 
stances it is not to be wondered at that a vague creeping of 
distrust came over every cautious conversation, held under 
bated breaths, carrying yyith them the chill foreboding that 
something deep was to be brought about. Which was just 
precisely why Coggeshall had held the vernal thousand 
under Skip’s nose. 

His plans for the cataclysm were rapidly nearing com¬ 
pletion; had all the imps of the infernal region issued forth 
at his beck and call to serve, things could not have run on 
more smoothly—superficially—for him. The train was 
well laid that was to blow up the meddling priest; satisfied 
of that fact he prepared to sit back at a safe distance to 
watch the effect of the electric spark on the mine. 

“Have you ever stopped to think” he said oqe morning 
to Bridget in his suave and careless tone, “how foolish it 
is to permit enmity to exist between me and Father O’Con- 


253 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


nor?” which being precisely the thought ever contending 
with thoughts of Val for ascendancy in her pure mind, 
caused her to look up at him with a mingling of hope and 
wonder in her pretty face. 

“Isn't it indeed?” she agreed eagerly; he nodded and 
walked over to the window as if to survey through it the 
wilderness of ice and snow, apparently lost in thought. 

“Now” he went on finally, with Bridget hanging on his 
every word, “I don’t like it, I don’t want it and what is 
more to the purpose—I won't have it. But just now—” 
then paused as if at a loss for words. 

“It would be a splendid time for reconciliation” she 
breathed, almost alarmed at her temerity in even suggesting 
such a thing. 

“I have thought so” he went on reflectively, still with his 
back to her as he gazed out over the glittering landscape, 
“I have indeed prepared a suggestion to make him, but 
scarcely see my way clear—” she waited for him to finish; 
as he seemed reluctant she spoke again. 

“But why?” He laughed softly. 

“Because coming at this time he will think it a trick 
of the enemy—it will have a wooden horse look to him.” 

“Oh, no” she assured him, still in an eager, hopeful wav 
that—had she but known it—was bringing a wicked smile 
of satisfaction to the corners of his attractive mouth. 

“I’m afraid so” he forced himself to sigh, “and it is too 
tremenduous an affair to hand him now with the risk of his 
betraying it to the men.' 1 She uttered a cluck of negation. 

“But he won’t if you put it in that way” she made bold 
to insist; he turned on her suddenly as if smote with a 
new idea. 

"By jove” he exclaimed, “you talk as a Catholic of 
course, but there is such a thing as the seal of the Con¬ 
fessional isn’t' there?” Her face clouded a trifle at his 
reference to that. 

“Affairs of this sort are scarcely fit topics to intrude 
when one is occupied with affairs of the soul” she replied 
with a suggestion of coolness not lost on the expert casuist. 
He shook his head in well simulated gravity. 

“And yet I should feel safe with nothing less, under the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


259 


circumstances. You see if it ever became known who in¬ 
timated that I wish to convey to him in a conciliatory way, 
my situation in the Craigie Mill would last just long enough 
for me to write out my resignation” and he laughed in a 
pleasant manner. 

“But—but—” feebly, “do you intend to convey it to him 
directly—?” 

“I thought” he said regarding her from across the room 
in a way that made her forget the unpleasant impression 
incited by Grace’s recent conversation, “it might come 
through you —still—” she made a gesture of frightened dis¬ 
sent. 

“Oh, but could you trust me—” 

“Quite” easily; “for you see I am confident I can trust 
you—since the matter of the big order the day of the strike” 
with a covert watch of her face and a sensation of great 
gratification in noting the tell tale blush that at first stole 
over it—followed by the gray lines of distress as memory 
cruelly recalled what had been her reward for fidelitv to 
the cause of the Mill on the ill fated occasion. “But. of 
course” he said presently “I cannot be so sure under or¬ 
dinary circumstances of the person to whom the information 
is eventually to be conveyed.” 

“I think I understand” she said vaguely — not quite 
sophisticated enough to catch his drift yet. 

“So” he went on very casually as he lit a cigar, “I fan¬ 
cied I might be able to have the matter conveyed to him 
through you in such a way as to show him my sincerity yet 
leave it impossible for him to play me false—” she put 
up a protesting hand but he ran on— “and really I know 
of no way outside that permitted by your church.” He 
was in no haste to break in on her revery as she ran it over 
in her mind. No doubt he was sincere in testifying to his 
appreciation of the priest’s services and, as it meant the 
conveying of information needed by the men in the present 
distressed condition of affairs, she saw no reason why she 
should not be the instrument, not only of his renewal of 
old relations with Father O’Connor but the triumph of 
the hands now that they were handicapped by the absence 
of Val—with which her innocent soul daily charged itself. 



260 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


At any rate, whether made in the Confessional or out of it— 
which Coggeshall need not know—the information should 
be given the people. 

That she was being badly deluded, that she was as a 
Iamb in the clutches of a wolf, that he could have nothing 
to offer in this way of real benefit to the priest or his people 
—never occured to her in the excitement of the moment; 
in her great desire to bring about amicable relations be¬ 
tween the super and the priest in order that the situation 
of the toilers might be bettered, she threw precaution to 
the winds and leaped to conclusions with all the impulsive¬ 
ness of her easily beguiled race. Hapless little Bridget! 

“Now then” he continued as in answer to her look of 
assent he came closer to her chair that he might whisper the 
message in safety, “ask him if he will go to a meeting at 
the Rookery when he receives a guarded intimation of it 
—without question—for I know that there will be an effort 
made at that meeting to bring about a strike which he alone 
can ward off—with absolutely no mention of me in the 
matter, understand?” She nodded in awed tension. “Let 
him know” he went on boldly, “that Skip Blake, the new 
president—has sold out the men—” she uttered a low 
cry of dismay— “Is’nt my revelation of that sufficient proof 
of the sincerity of my desire to bring about friendly rela¬ 
tions with your pastor?” he demanded triumphantly. With 
hot tears of gratification welling to her eyes she was 
forced to confess that it was; perhaps it was the something 
in her innocent regards that daunted the schemer for a mo¬ 
ment, caused him to make a move as if to quit the office 
abruptly. 

“I am to tell him this at once?” she asked feverishly. 

“At once!” and with her assent he knew the moment was 
at hand for the evening of all old scores. 

Despite the quiet warnings extended by Grace as to the 
value of the sinister friendship of Coggeshall, Bridget 
simply was impelled by a multitude of conflicting emotions 
to consent to be the olive branch. Despite even 
notice of interviews with the greasy Malachi and the crawl¬ 
ing Blake, she was compelled to repose a measure of trust 
in him, for the purpose and intent of this latter interview 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


261 


was not only to help the misled men but to bring about a 
reconciliation between him and Father O’Connor. Of a 
gentle and forgiving nature herself, she saw nothing incon¬ 
sistent in this sudden offer of harmony by Coggeshall and 
she determined at any cost to bring about the much need¬ 
ed peace even if in so doing she widened the breach al¬ 
ready existing between her and Crosby. As a matter of fact, 
her soul rather accused Val of standing in his own light in 
his sudden departure from Fern Park, as she was gradu¬ 
ally coming to the belief that it had been brought about by 
his unreasoning antagonism toward the super. Taken al¬ 
together, the wily Winthrop had builded a bit better than 
he knew. 

Even at that his position was not one of unalloyed bliss 
during a very busy season; absorbed in his struggle with 
the men—via Malachi and Skip—and the downfall of 
Father O’Connor (with the unconscious help of Bridget) 
and the unremitting pursuit of Grace Colquhoun—he was 
pretty well occupied. Nor had hopes of learning some¬ 
thing of his brother faded entirely from his mind, al¬ 
though Larry’s answers to his frequent catechism were as 
vague and discouraging as ever. But the prosecution of 
his love affair—the one great unselfish spot in his careless 
life—became an ambition fairly overwhelming, the more so 
that he must have something tangible as an antidote to the 
heart sickness of the sordid Mill life until enabled to quit 
it forever. Indeed he quite ate his heart out in repining 
that he could not entertain nor be entertained by the 
Craigies at Christmas, but the old Scotch covenanter ab¬ 
solutely and rigidly refused to make a festival of a day 
that suggested in its innocent revelry, over the coming of 
the very Saviour he adored, something of “Popery.” 

So, instead of spending at least a part of the day in the 
company of Grace, intimating his devotion and detailing his 
plans for making the Craigie Mills the cream of New Eng¬ 
land textile works, he spent what would have been, but for 
Larry, a cheerless day at the hotel. Not only was that 
worthy cheerful (by reason of a round of early visits 
amongst his cronies where he was “forced” to partake of 
at least two loving cups, one to his own health and the 


262 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

other to the health of the host) but capable of making cheer 
for his employer. Noting shortly before the great day that 
’the “blue nosed” cook had gone and been replaced by a 
strapping Irish girl, he had used his limpid tongue on her 
to such good effect that she consented to prepare a Christ¬ 
mas dinner a la Ireland —which the proud and loquacious 
Larry surprised his friend by placing before him with a 
flourish. 

There was a crisp and greasy goose, stuffed with po¬ 
tatoes, bread and oysters, heavily seasoned with sage, a 
hickory cured ham stuck with cloves and deliciously baked, 
a brace of squabs, some cider that sparkled like cham¬ 
pagne; the whole rounded off and amplified with a bursting 
plum pudding and burnt brandy sauce, flanked by old 
fashioned, home made mince pies. With Cognac to follow, 
Coggeshall sank with a sigh of relief into his easy chair 
after doing justice to the new cook, listening to Larry’s 
chatter through the clouds of smoke he exhaled from a 
cigar forced on him, instead of the truculent clay pipe, 
which he clumsily held between the tips of his fingers and 
his thumb like a javelin in the hands of the thrower and 
which he inserted into his mouth with the palm of his hand 
outward. 

As a matter of fact it was a miracle he didn’t reveal what 
Billocter had told him, a secret that fairly burned his 
breast—but his tongue was going at such a clip, propelled 
by all the good cheer of the day, that he simply neglected 
his signals and ran by the station wherein reposed the 
crumb of comfort intended for the restless Winthrop Cogge- 
shall. 

Two days following the talk with Billocter, Larry had 
sought out the undertaking establishment on Hanover Street 
of Patrick O’Malley and Sons wherein he hoped to learn 
something of the whereabouts of the mysterious Margaret. 
It was a pleasant little shop elbowed in by a saloon on 
one side (from which indirectly it received much of its 
custom) and a confectionery on the other, well lighted and 
cheerful, admitting no traces of its gruesome occupation 
outside a single cloth covered casket on a stand. There 
was no one in the reception room, a well heated apartment 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


263 


lit lip by potted plants which said as plainly as words “We 
are not responsible for the griefs of life,” gigantic palms 
and handsome mahogany cases that—white sepulchre like 
—hinted at nothing ghastly. 

Scraping his foot a few times over the oil cloth floor 
and coughing huskily once or twice, he was rewarded by 
hearing a noise beyond the glazed glass partition betray¬ 
ing the presence of someone. That some one oozed nois- 
lessly through the door finally, being a man of about 
thirty five, with a glowing nose, agreeable eye and hair 
looped gracefully down over his low forehead, who came 
with a benevolent expression on his smug countenance 
and a professional wringing of the hands, accompanying 
a bland smile, meant to intimate that while he hated to 
be at the disposal of anyone on such a sad occasion he 
was, nevertheless, taking it by and large, very much at the 
disposal of anyone—and can you blame me? He seemed 
too, to radiate an air intended to convey the impression 
that he had been interrupted in the performance of the 
last sad rites over the world shell of some unfortunate— 
when as a matter of fact Larry had broken in on a brisk 
game of F orty Five—a nickel a corner. 

“Is this Misther O’Malley?” he enquired after a leisure¬ 
ly survey of the gentleman; he nodded and slyly inserted 
a clove into his mouth. 

“Yes sir—James—of Patrick O’Malley and Sons” with 
pardonable pride and a cough into the palm of his hand, 

“Your father—” he raised reverent eyes heavenward and 
smiled sadly. 

“Dead, sir—” with a resigned sigh, “dead these ten 
years—Lord have mercy on his soul—and the biggest 
funeral in the North End—not even barring Alderman 
Llogan’s five year ago this month—no next” he corrected 
thoughtfully. 

“Then is there any way” with a sudden sinking of heart, 
“that I cud find out about a funeral in April, 1861—” 

“Ten years before the Big Fire, hey? Well” polishing 
his ruby beak reflectively, “father left some old books, 
but about that year—lemme see” as if the polishing pro¬ 
cess had polished his wits, he turned to a battered old 


264 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


safe in the corner whence he extracted a mass of books 
w r ith crumbling binding and discolored edges. He ran his 
eye over them hurriedly—then paused with a cry of delight 
and pride. 

“Aha"’ blowing the dust off, “aha” fondling it as a 
mother would her babe, “here we are, right side up with 
care, bill inside and loaded as billed” rapturously. “The 
old gent” proudly tapping the venerable book, “wasn’t 
such a much on education, understand, but the old gent— 
Lord have mercy on his soul—and he laid away more 
souls than any one in the North End” as if the laying 
away of mortality were a fit subject for competition— 
“knew the value of accuracy and preciseness—don’t for¬ 
get that” which Larry with nods promised not to do— 
“something” with a sigh of regret, “we of this generation 
neglect.” 

“Thrue f’r ye” the agreeable Larry acquiesced. 

Yes, there was the notation and the eyes of honest Larry 
moistened in following the blunt finger of the Son of 
O’Malley as it traced the death registry made by the il¬ 
literate but accurate sire. There was the solemn entry, 
Wife of Nehemiah Coggeshall, Mount Calvary Cemetery, 
Father DeRoule, celebrant of the Mass—and the crabbed 
notation, “Paid in Full.” 

“But who ped it?” he asked hoarsely; ah, there it was 
in the margin, “Margaret Casey.” Larry straightened up 
with a sigh as the young fellow laughed at his brilliancy 
in making it out. 

“And I’ll bet I know what became of her—what will 
you bet I don’t?” he cried, the sporting blood predomin¬ 
ating over the funeral, “what’ll you bet I don’t know 
what became of her, hey?” but Larry was in no mood 
for taking or making bets just then. 

“D’ye known, sor?” he pleaded wistfully. The other 
rocked back and forth from heel to toe, hands thrust in 
his trousers pockets and head on one side, the better per¬ 
haps to reveal the ruby attractiveness of his features. 

“Sure I do” he asseverated, “and I’ll bet I can tell you 
who struck Billy Patterson” and he laughed at this deli¬ 
cate flash of wit. “She married a Tim Galvin—” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 265 

“Name o’ God yes—” Larry gasped. 

“And one day just before father passed away—Lord 
have mercy on his soul—she came in here to get his signa¬ 
ture to a pension paper.” 

“Pinsion paper—f’r what?” 

“Her first old man was killed at the battle of Bull Run 
—didn’t run fast enough, I guess, ha, ha!” and he laughed 
heartily at his very clever conception of wit. 

“Thin she married a Tim Galvin?” with dry lips. He 
nodded. 

“Dropped a sure thing for a selling plater” in deep 
scorn intended to convey the information that she had lost 
her pension to marry Galvin. “I remember the name 
’cause the old gent asked her if she spelled it with a K— 
ha, ha, he’d joke if he was getting hung” and he joked 
with himself at the recollection of the lively spirited Pat¬ 
rick. 

“D’ye know her address?” 

“No, I don’t—accourse you can find it in the directory” 
which having occured to Larry at about the same moment 
came in the nature of a revelation. He shook hands with 
the affable performer of disagreeable duties and was pro¬ 
fuse in his thanks. 

“God bless ye sor” he quavered “’tis a happy man ye’ve 
med me this day—an’ now t’find her.” 

“Oh, you’ll find her all right—tell you what I’ll do—” 
with a sudden happy thought, “I’ll bet you two to one 
you’ll find her inside a week, come make it a bet” rock¬ 
ing on his heels and toes in happy contemplation of 
Larry’s preoccupied features. But he was not betting to¬ 
day. 

“If I do find her” he promised as he turned to go, “I’ll 
buy you th’ best beaver in th’City—” 

“And if you don’t find her I agree to set ’em up to the 
house,” bound not to be foiled in his betting proclivities, 
but Larry again ignored even that generous offer and made 
his way gratefully out of the cheery apartment of grue¬ 
some habits, while the sporty James went back hurriedly 
to his hand at Forty Five, as well pleased as if he had 
been called on to prepare a “stiff” for its eternal abode. 


266 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


So over Charlestown Bridge Larry went the same day 
and by the big monument that is a shrine for everybody 
but a Bostonian, he obtained a directory to look up a 
host of Galvins. The pursuit of the possible ones used 
up almost the entire day, but eventually he discovered 
what he took to be traces of the one he wanted. But Mar¬ 
garet Galvin, born Casey, was dead, the widower Tim had 
married again and after some talk with him Larry was 
assured he was the very individual that had called upon 
the Ashburton Place home until the cold hearted grand¬ 
mother caused the visits to be stopped. But Mr. Galvin 
was singularly uncommunicative. 

“But what become o’th’child?” Larry implored: Gal¬ 
vin gave him an ugly look. 

“I med ’er give ’im up” he snapped. “We had no 
money t’take care o’every dir-rty brat” and never knew 
how near the enraged fellow’s fist was to his nose at that 
insulting dismissal of a topic so dear to him. 

“What’d ye do with it?” he asked calmly as he could. 

“None o’ yer business” he snapped, but Larry knew it 
would be some of his business as soon as he saw Cogges- 
hall’s money. But he determined that that was not to 
come for awhile—if he could beat the ill natured cur, who 
had deliberately cast away a poor orphan, out of any re¬ 
ward he determined to do so. 

There yet remained one ray of light—the child, despite 
its fearful handicap, might yet be alive. Crestfallen at 
times, at other times hopeful, he made a partial report to 
Mike who gave the subject the best attention any affair 
could hope to obtain while the cobbler fairly threw the 
pegs into his mouth and pounded them as vengefully into 
the leather as he could. 

“D’ye think she ever adopted th’child?” Mike demand¬ 
ed finally; Larry pondered. 

“By grab” he reflected, “Mebbe she did—who knows?” 
And he looked hard at Mike. 

“Thin” said Mike quietly, “Go in t’th’Surrogate Coort 
an’ find out.” 

“But” he said dubiously after a lengthy pause, “what 
good will that do if they gev him up?” Mike snorted. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


267 


“There’ll be notice of a cancellation o’th’articles of 
adoption, wont there?” he snapped so assured that Larry 
was forced to agree with him and into the seat of Suf¬ 
folk County’s official affairs he went. 

It took him a long time to run the gauntlet of super¬ 
cilious clerks cluttering the temple of Justice; he ab¬ 
sorbed much of his plentiful supply of patience in doing 
it, for these gentlemen who spend years in acquiring their 
parrot like knowledge of legal affairs, seem to positively 
hate an individual who, engaged in honest business, has 
no time to waste in acquiring information that they cheer¬ 
fully pay taxes that the other may store for his use. Which 
is an illuminating reflection on our American office hold¬ 
ing life. But the sturdy Larry was not one to be easily 
bluffed; he went meekly enough from one petty tyrant 
to another until he finally arrived at the records 
that should bear upon the period of the probable adoption 
and having captured the attention of a funny story tell¬ 
er long enough to gain his assistance, they went carefully 
over the records. But no Margaret Casey had adopted a 
child during that period and with another sinking of the 
heart Larry determined to see Mr. Galvin again to dis¬ 
cover if possible where the flaw was in the various stories. 


268 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Grace coming out of the post office the night after Christ¬ 
mas narrowly escaped a collision with Lance Fleetley, 
thoughtfully (and as preoccupied as herself apparently) 
making his way up town; it was their first encounter in 
weeks and she permitted plain evidences of pleasure in 
the happy accident both by the air of pretty confusion 
and the warm hand clasp she accorded him. She had 
walked from home and Fleetley instinctively dropped into 
step beside her after a few trite nothings concerning the 
season and the weather (tonight a sparkle and glister of 
frosty moonlight that nipped the blood and limbered 
every cord and muscle) the Mill and her health; thus 
engaged in animated chatter they came to what^was once 
the main entrance to the Park House, just as a carriage 
pulled up out of which Coggeshall leaped and started to 
run across the sidewalk. He stopped dead in his tracks 
an infinitesimal part of a moment at the startling sight 
of the pair, the glare from the lobby revealing a quick 
shading of his mobile features and an almost lightning 
like blaze of the eyes—then he bowed gravely (to Miss 
Colquhoun, no mistaking that) and continued on into the 
warm hostelry. They exchanged an embarrassed glance 
—then laughed unaffectedly. 

“He showed some breeding all right” Fleetley acknowl¬ 
edged gently, “what a pity it couldn’t be extended to the 
Mill hands.” She shook her head. 

“It is all the result of our democratic training” she 
volunteered softly. “Absolute equality exists—in people 
traversing the same plane—that it should happen between 
people of all levels is out of the question of course in 
this land of equality.” He pretended to jibe at her irony. 

“Oh very well Miss Censor” he said severely, “how 
would you like to be put to the test yourself—” 

“Try me!” 

“To what extent may you be trusted with the affairs of 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 269 

the Mill people?” She turned a reproachful eye upon 
him at that out of the depth of the scarlet hood and he 
was made to repent quickly. 

“Do you need ask that?” and after one daring glance 
at the glowing features, lit by the miraculous eyes, he 
decided he need not. “You yourself are no more in¬ 
terested in them than I, you know that.” 

“Pardon me, I do” he acknowledged humbly and went 
a few paces lost in deep reflection. “When I asked that 
I had something on my mind which I wish to have cleared 
—naturally I desire an earnest of its reception—” 

“Go on” quietly, “I am as secret as the dead.” Flat¬ 
tered at this show of interest, he explained. 

“There’s trouble on tap in the Mill.” 

“I guessed as much immediately following the election” 
she admitted sadly. 

“A lot of thick headed fools have decided to run the 
Craigie Mill—” 

“ ‘Set a beggar on horseback—’ ” 

“Win or lose, they are going in for trouble, trouble is 
what they want, nothing else will do.” She was looking 
at him with a mingling of pity and dismay—oh the cruelty 
of a conflict in this bitter season! 

“That—that is not mere guess work, Mr. Fleetley?” 
and as if to inspire confidence offered a show on her 
part by taking his arm—a simple movement that sent the 
blood surging through his body and made his temples 
throb happily. 

“Skip Blake’s got some crooked scheme up his sleeve—” 

“The new president—he is dishonest?” He laughed, and 
not mirthfully. 

“Tie’s so crooked he meets himself going around the 
corner. He is a living example of the precept that the 
working man is his own enemy.” 

“But surely he can’t lead all these hard headed men 
into this—” 

“Well, you see, he wears a bell—they follow the sound” 
significantly and bitterly. 

“And who put the bell on him?” with a poorly assumed 
air of carelessness. He looked down into her face with 


270 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

the aid of a friendly post lamp to assure himself she 
wished the revelation; he read the answer in her tightened 
lips and set features. 

“Let us not name him—yet” he said gently, “let him 
be the X of the puzzle” and fancied he was rewarded by a 
gentle pressure on his arm. 

“But can’t something be done”? with an impatient sigh. 

“Oh, yes—Val Crosby could get his coreligionists with 
him in a twinkling—they swear by him—” 

“Why don’t you write him to return? ” in some wonder. 
He laughed again. 

“Do you think I’ve been fool enough to neglect such a 
simple duty” he demanded. “No use.” 

“Why?” 

“Because—savin’ yer presence, as Larry says—of the 
eternal feminine.” 

“Oh—haven’t Bridget and he settled that yet?” 

“Evidently not.” 

“That was a pretty cleverly concocted bit of business 
was it not?” The eyes turned in her direction now were 
flaming. 

“I’ve cursed holes in the plaster of my mansion over 
that” he gritted and she could feel his body quiver as if 
seeking to restrain itself. “Think of stooping to such a 
puny, nasty way of getting revenge—of seeking the upper 
hand of as fine a lot of people—ugh!” and he could 
say no more, hatred of someone fairly radiating from 
every muscle of his body. 

“This leads me to believe it has gone beyond a mere 
lover’s quarrel” she said thoughtfully. 

“You may rest assured it has” warmly; “someone lied 
most damnably to Val and he wrote her a letter in reply 
that I imagine has knocked any chances of reconciliation 
into a cocked hat. You see” sadly, “virtue is the highest 
endowment of these people and a sinister intimation even—” 
she broke in with a gasp. 

“Great heavens, you don’t mean anything of that nature 
has been hinted—” 

“I mean” in a cold, harsh voice, “that a cruel construct- 
tion was put upon her rejection of Val.” The shock of that 
held her silent a long time. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


271 


“And you think that with him here the situation might 
be saved?” 

“Ile'd tie that yaller dog Skip in a how knot quicker 
than you could say Jack Robinson.” She was lost in 
thought now as thev plodded on over the frozen ground. 

“Then I’ll see that he comes” in the voice of the Old 
Man himself. He laid a restraining hand on the arm rest¬ 
ing on his. 

“Exercise a good deal of prudence” he cautioned. 
“Remember this plot emanates from head quarters and of 
course has the endorsement—” 

“I care neither for him who made it or backs it” she 
flung back hotly, “77/ see that justice is done—if I have to 
see it from the outside of my uncle’s house,” with a sig¬ 
nificance not lost on him. Somehow that sentiment put a 
foolish feeling in the heart of the mysterious one—a feeling 
that she was an aristocrat on the surface only and a thor¬ 
oughbred in soul and body. 

“What do you purpose doing?” 

“See that beguiled little girl and force her to a recon¬ 
ciliation with Crosby.” 

“That’s the ticket!” he agreed heartily. “Miss Colquhoun, 
I’m with these men heart and soul even if I may not be here 
—” then stopped with an irritating laugh of confusion. 

“I beg pardon?” as she dropped her hand when they 
reached the gate. 

“Oh” he explained lightly, “a vagabond such as I must 
always be prepared to follow where vagrant inclination 
beckons.” She was regarding him in the woe that has no 
vocal expression. “So just try to get Val here will you?” 
he interpolated hastily. 

“If there be any foundation for the reputed strength of 
a woman’s wiles he will be back here to settle this affair 
or I’ll know the reason why” and as she was temptingly 
near he essayed a hand shake which she allowed—and per¬ 
mitted the mittened hand to rest in his. Then there came 
a sudden awkward pause. Sentiments carefully rehearsed 
in the event of just such an occasion faded into oblivion, 
words carefully chosen refused to drop from lips used to 
light phrases; thoughts boldly nurtured in secret and once 
dreamed to be so easily revealed now remained locked in 


272 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the innermost recesses of heart and soul as if fearful of 
entrusting themselves to an unresponsive repository. 

She shifted the bundles she had received at the post office 
from arm to arm while he shuffled and patted the creaking 
snow beneath his feet with a mingling of platitudes foreign 
to the sentiment of both—while in the breast of each seethed 
a glow of satisfaction. It was as if they had been rewarded 
for a mutual interest in a people socially and educationally 
beneath them by an irresistible drawing together and tacit 
understanding beyond the mere human voice to express; 
certain it is, that their interest lent to her a boldness that 
convention would not approve if manifested toward one 
of her station of life—while he—dreamed! When the final 
good night had been exchanged and he had seen her dis¬ 
appear up the moon lit walk he turned away as if treading 
on air while she sought her room with a something dazzling 
her soul even as a sharp ray of light amazes the eye of 
the suddenly awakened. Grace Colquhoun had been 
awakened—then she chilled apprehensively at his hint of 
going. 

True to her promise she took Bridget sleigh riding again 
next day against the distinct disapproval of Coggeshall, 
(carefully shaded however) for he was beginning to sense 
danger in this strange intimacy, while he vainly conjured 
services pressing enough to admit no delay; but Grace 
laughingly turned his admonitions aside and he was forced 
to watch the two ride away in the keen sunshine with a 
feeling akin to murder in his heart, h was no pleasant 
thing to reflect on her walking with the mysterious Fleetley 
the night before—nor was it a soothing thought that just 
after the inception of his plot to put Father O’Connor in 
bad Bridget was secretly conferring with one whose re¬ 
sentment of the trick—did she suspect it—would be the 
real fly in his ointment. He cursed the delay of the de¬ 
tective who had been put in charge of the Fleetley case 
but that placid individual simply referred him to the 
British Consul, who, with true British sang froid and lack 
of feverish haste, besought him to await the report of the 
Secretary of the Home Office—which latter Coggeshall 
consigned to the bottomless pits for his negligence and 
delay. At any rate there was something apt to happen 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


273 


any moment in the case of Fieetley as well as that of the 
others who had run counter to his plans. Turning from 
the window with this comforting reflection he gazed into 
the calculating optic of the waiting Malachi and driven 
to a frenzy thereby, snatched a paper weight from the 
desk and failed only in his benevolent intention of bounc¬ 
ing it off his head by the swift interposition of the door 
slammed to as the spy shot out, breathless and dazed. 

“Have you heard from Val lately?” Grace asked finally 
as she looked at the pathetic little figure by her side. 

“No” with a poor assumption of indifference and cold¬ 
ness. 

“Well I want you should write him dear” she said in 
a tone of command at variance with the pleading words; 
Bridget looked up in surprise. 

“Why—particularly ? ” 

“Because he is needed back here to handle a very dubious 
situation.” 

“I’m aware of that” she conceded softly, “but I think” 
her mind reverting to the oleaginous suggestion of the super, 
“that there are strong indications of a mend.” Grace said 
nothing as she urged the mare on a trifle; then she looked 
squarely at Bridget again. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Oh” in some confusion, “Mr. Coggeshall knows what 
the men are contemplating and has arranged to make terms 
with them.” 

“Indeed?” as frostily as the atmosphere. 

“Yes” too preoccupied to note the intonation, “he spoke 
to me about it!” 

“And what did he say?” went on the female Paul Pry 
quite unashamed. Bridget shook her head. 

“I don’t think he cares to have it go any farther at pre¬ 
sent—” Grace made a menacing gesture toward a youth 
with a snow ball poised for them. 

“At present? M’hm—I see” in real icy tones. “Then” 
very briskly, “I have precious little faith in his plan. Now 
Bridget you must—you absolutely must —get Val Crosby 
back here. Mr. Fieetley and I have both made up our minds 
to that”—she paid no attention to the other’s wondering 
glance— “and we don’t want you should tell Mr. Cogge¬ 
shall of it —at present ” with a significant echo. 


274 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Oh no” she promised meekly, quite bewildered by this 
sudden rush of confidences—evidences of faith in her judg¬ 
ment were coming so thick and fast of late she could 
scarcely keep track of them, indeed was beginning to lose 
count of their varying characteristics, to such an extent 
as to make it difficult to recall what were intended for 
dissemination and what were obviously not intended for 
publication. It was a trying time and this was a fresh 
trying situation; it took a deal of persuasion on the part 
of Grace to impress on the clerk the necessity of her writing 
Val again—but fealty to the people of the Mill finally con¬ 
quered human pride and injured feelings and by the time 
the ride was finished she promised to urge on him to return 
—but the eager woman by her side never dreamed of the 
terrific sacrifice she urged on the meek Bridget White. 

So terrific indeed, that she staved it off as long as pos¬ 
sible, while she prayed and wept in secret—then alarmed 
at the impending clash as revealed in reports from the 
heated meetings in the Rookery dominated by the fractious 
Blake partisans and the sulky, quarrelsome talk of the men 
in the streets she trod pride beneath her feet; she wrote a 
letter to Val detailing the symptoms and pleading with him 
to come back—even ignoring her if he so wished. She 
felt she had put herself out of his life and although it was 
killing her she resolved to let it go that way rather than 
dissappoint her good friend Grace by refusing the urgent 
request because of personal pique. 

In the letter she revealed the woman thrusting aside 
every emotion of pride humbly to assert that she believed 
she had been in the wrong in spurning his love for the 
casuistry of the superintendent. She literally threw herself 
—all sweet and pure as she was—at the feet of her lover, 
claiming naught for herself if others might be saved. Val 
read the letter with a bitter sneer, but on reading it again 
and between the lines as it were, his egoism caved; he began 
to think out a convenient excuse to return to Fern Park to 
when he thought of the awful innuendo contained in that 
settle the trouble—and regain his precious Bridget. Then 
letter (direct from Coggeshall had he but known it) he felt 
his ardent blood grow cold—he saw himself going back 
to be the scorn of those who might be in on the secret— 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 275 

and his resolve wavered. No, no—he couldn’t go just yet. 

Meanwhile the strike prospect was engaging the attention 
of the social experts who mouthed it gingerly and lingered 
with it over their tea and cakes; Craigie’s minister had 
preached a sermon that sent him home congealed into a 
block of rage and chagrin—quickly dissolved by the lique¬ 
fying Methodist minister when they met again. 

Coggeshall was quite a hero in the tea cup trenches, the 
glowing eyes of all the fair ones being turned on him as 
the latest St. George ready to spring in to the cave of pro- 
letarianism and kill the foul beast about to issue with its 
notions of life ready to devour their ideas of justice and 
honor and right and dignity and a host of other things 
inseparably connected with wealth and social standing— 
really, when one came to think of it, it was remarkable 
that he, scion of a family that had—oh dear—fought on 
Flodden Field and in Flanders and at Plymouth and at so 
many other places not easily recalled now—could maintain 
his complaisance and urbanity in the midst of the vulgar 
workers who actually presumed to know as much about 
the thin ^clothing they wore and the poor food they put in 
their bellies and the sorrows they mutely endured as he; 
it was marvelous! And Winthrop Coggeshall, with an 
inscrutable smile that Larry could have told them masked 
a storm of impatient blasphemy, merely listened politely 
and agreed amiably. Very sweet and condescending of him 
don’t you think? Oh very, a nineteenth century caval- 
alier. Quite. 

In the mean time Larry thought he was meeting with 
very poor success; foiled in his enquiry in the Court he 
resolved to go back to the saturnine Galvin bearing gifts— 
in other words money. It had the desired effect to some 
extent. He made the admission that the child had been 
turned over to the Home of the Angel Guardians but when 
Larry descended on that institution he was met with the 
disquieting information that Father Haskins was away on 
a trip to the west and the assistant was not sufficiently con¬ 
versant with the history of boys other than those recently 
received. But he did go over the records and although 
he discovered three boys who were received at about the time 
Mr. Galvin pretended his wife had committed the lad there 


276 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


was nothing to indicate that the young Coggeshall was one 
of them. From which circumstances Larry sorrowfully 
concluded Mr. Galvin (in addition to being very surly 
and truculent), was an accomplished liar. But the assistant 
priest bade him return when Father Haskins was back and 
they would go over the business again. 

More than once it was on the tip of his tongue to reveal 
his progress thus far, but every rebuff weakened his deter¬ 
mination; besides, he w T as wise enough to detect the signs of 
secret worries attendant on the consummation of the many 
plans that had driven Coggeshall to a degree of moody 
taciturnity and absence of the old smooth urbanity, tending 
to keep even the faithful Larry at a distance. After the 
call on Father Haskins he would tell all he knew and then 
decide whether it were worth while pressing Galvin with 
more money to tell the truth. 

At that, he found some comfort in the fact that Malachi 
was getting his share of worldly cold shoulder too. To tell 
the truth Mr. Clark was in the depths of miserable conject¬ 
ure. In the course of his visits to the Rookery for the 
purpose of espionage, conducted via key hole in Fleetley’s 
door, he had run across the red tipped hook nose and 
curving tawny mustache and eye watering behind a monocle 
on more than one occasion. Thinking to kill two birds 
with one stone he sought to insinuate himself into the good 
graces of the haughty representative of the “Land o’th’Sas- 
senach” as the implacable Allen would have put it—but to 
no purpose. The astute Englishman, having been fed on 
American lies to the point where he believed all America 
was in a plot to frustrate his intentions, looked with a 
Chuzzlewittian suspicion on all that approached him; 
the consequence being that the dark vague hints Malachi let 
slip, rather than placating, threw him into a near frenzy 
as indicating that some one beside himself was interested 
in the Mysterious Fleetley—having of course no way of 
knowing that the leak which began with Billocter trickled 
through Larry to Coggeshall to Malachi—a crude sort of 
a baseball problem, as it were. 

Malachi’s reports satisfied Coggeshall in a measure— 
although he took no pains to signify that fact—as indicating 
that some one was on the trail of the despised Fleetley; 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


277 


lie was now satisfied to let matters take their course until 
after a certain event, being on the whole of an unworrying 
disposition that took refuge in the belief that all must even¬ 
tually work out satisfactorily, even if he did feel oc¬ 
casional irritation at what appeared to be grossly dilatory 
tacti's. 

Morever he was enabled to drop quiet hints to Grace, 
as they sat with her uncle going over the Mill aff airs, as to 
he possibility of being able to identify the disturbing 
Fleetley with a clever band of confidence men that had re¬ 
cently upset two continents—to which she listened with 
the imperturbability of one whose heart kept her better in¬ 
formed. Hugh Craigie, by the way, was in good humor 
those days by reason of the devoted attention of the super 
to his beautiful niece. A poor boy himself, and rightly 
entitled to hate all that smacked of the oppression of the 
rich and powerful, he still nursed in his system the innnate 
longing to ally himself with them, being shrewd enough 
to know that there was nothing better in New England— 
nor in America for the matter of that—than the haloed 
Coggeshalls. So it was that he gloated over the devotion 
of the super even if he didn’t appear to see her tactful re¬ 
ception of it. 

Blake still ran things with a high hand in the union and 
with his well balanced cohort began to push every measure 
that suited him. It was all retailed to Val by Lance who 
was filled with wonder that he made no effort to return 
even after Bridget had assured Grace that it must be a pos¬ 
sibility of the near future. But Fleetley reflecting that it 
was a busy season, and so impracticable for a boss to get 
off, he dismissed the matter with the best grace and patience 
he could summon under the distressing circumstances, 
living in the hope that things would run on in the union 
until the foolish tide ebbed forever. A consummation that 
seldom materializes. 

Father O’Connor saw the super at times and to his 
immense relief noted a more genial access of warmth in 
his greetings—Coggeshall even going so far as to tip his 
hat as the reverent Catholics themselves did—a concession 
he had never accorded the cloth. Altogether, indications 
seemed to multiply that the evil day was postponed for 


278 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the union; gradually the tiny community settled itself 
down like any hibernating animal for a snug winter before 
hailing the genial breath of revivifying spring. Little 
dreaming that at that very somnolent period the determined 
Coggeshall was feeling with his finger tip for the button, 
the pressure upon which was to cause an upheaval and an 
explosion destined to shake the foundations of Fern Park 
from their very base. 


FROM THE MELTING POl INTO THE MOLD 


279 


CHAPTER XXV. 

It was the eve of Epiphany—‘"Little Christmas” with the 
Irish—closely allied to the big festival just preceding and 
indubitably linked with it in the dim and misty sooth¬ 
saying. No good Irishman ventured to drink water at 
midnight, for at that moment had it not been turned into 
wine in commemoration of the miracle at the wedding feast? 
Nor was anyone curious or foolhardy enough in his visit 
to the stables to pay too close attention to the animals for 
were they not rewarded for their faithfulness in warming 
the Infant in the manger with their breaths, by being 
endowed with speech for an instant on this miraculous 
night? And was it not equally true that anyone hearing 
that speech was struck dead—furnishing to the skeptic a 
pretty good alibi for not hearing, as being fearful of 
immediate annihilation. 

On this night too the big candle that had burned in 
a place of honor at the table Christmas night was again 
haled forth to render renewed honor to the Child; it is 
true there was less fervor in the celebration, as offering no 
tangible excuse for abstaining from work, but in the few 
hours permitted full measures of homage were paid. 

However, there was no significance in any of these things 
in the thoughts of Winthrop Coggeshall that evening as 
after a quiet day in the Mill and a good supper, he prepared 
for an evening of social enjoyment, whistling softly and 
happily to himself snatches of the prevailing topical songs 
or singing at times in a well modulated voice strains of 
some reminiscient melody—college glees and operatic bits. 
Larry, absent considerably of late was not in yet, and he 
had not been seen all day, according to the boys about, 
who told of his having done the strange deed of entrusting 
his horses to a neighboring hostler. But he was not worry¬ 
ing—for to him Larry had at last confided the belief that 
his brother was alive! It was but a straw indeed but enough 
to take its place in his active brain beside thoughts of his 
future bride as he dressed. 


280 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

He smiled happily through his thoughts to the re¬ 
flection in the full length mirror—which not to be outdone 
responded brilliantly—as if congratulating him on his 
flattering chances in his wooing of Miss Colquhoun, for, 
baffled in his effort to have a confidential chat with her on 
Christmas day, he had determined to make the occasion 
for himself tonight. The first step being a long and elab¬ 
orate toilet. 

Every little detail was painstakingly attended to, every 
little touch that vanity and custom could suggest being 
seized upon to make him a fit object in his own captious 
estimation to throw himself at the feet of the glorious 
Grace. Even all the inherited good looks in his aristocratic 
features were not obliterated by the traces of vanity, almost 
amounting to smugness in mental review of his prospects 
at her shrine. He was above all the nabob, spoiled, selfish, 
heedless of the softer considerations of others, too prone 
to look upon himself as an irresistible being and given 
to carrying himself accordingly. There was almost a smirk 
in the arrangement of his very dress from the White Wings 
ensconced within the brilliant Ascot tie—the snug fitting 
Prince Albert—to the beautifully creased trousers and the 
shiney patent leather “toothpicks” on his shapely feet. 
Arrayed to suit himself at last, he stood before the mirror, 
turning at every angle, to survey himself with egoistic 
pleasure from every side. He was the personification of 
health, vigor, and manly beauty in every line and curve 
—it is little wonder the marvelous array of teeth glittered 
back at him as he mouthed to the glass to express his satis¬ 
faction. 

The winter day had opened with a marvelous January 
thaw and tonight, with the wind still coming from the south, 
he had been forced to open the windows to qualify the 
stagnant steam heat in his apartments, while the logs in the 
old fashioned fire place merely smouldered lazily; it was 
a night of morbid suggestiveness, a night savoring more 
of budding spring than drear mid winter, and he speculated 
idly as to how long it could last. 

He no longer sought to deny to his soul a deep, over¬ 
whelming passion for Miss Colquhoun, the punishment of 
a carreer of idle selfishness when he had fended proffers 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


281 


of womanly affection with a repellant and rude gesture; 
the idea of a possible fortune coming to her eventually 
signified nothing to him—money had never been more 
than a dirty means to an end anyway, and as far as he 
was concerned its total loss would have brought him but 
a moment’s concern—that is up to this point at which 
he began to realize its terrific possibilities in endowing 
her with all the luxuries fabulous wealth could attain. 
Then obtruded thoughts of the final blow at the Mill 
hands, the humiliation of all his enemies—the priest and 
Fleetley—the denouncement of triumph with Grace, the 
honeymoon trip about the world—ah, what a dream! 

There came a sudden, timid knock at the door, as of 
one wishing he were welcome; thinking it might be Larry 
he bade the knocker enter; to his unutterable disgust the 
ugly phiz of the ill omened Malachi greeted him with 
what passed for a smile with that insect. 

“Good evenin’ Misther Coggeshall” he whispered 
hoarsely, “there’ll be a meeting at th’Rookery th’night 
sor” with an asthmatic cough; Coggeshall, to whom this 
intrusion was as well timed as would have been the visit 
of the dentist, stamped his foot impatiently and ground 
out an oath. 

“The fools!” he exclaimed savagely and brushed his 
hat in unison with his chagrin. 

“Yes sor” as if wondering if he were included in that 
sweeping indictment, “an’ I saw Father O’Connor an’ 
hinted—” then came to a full stop in comical dismay 
as the face of Coggeshall turned black. 

“Hinted what?” he growled. 

“Why, mebbe as how—that is ’twould be p’rhaps—a 
good night t’have ’m c’m—” 

“Out with it you bungler, I’m in a hurry” seemingly 
unaware that he was trying to “out with it” as well as 
he could under a volley of scowls and objurgations. 

“He’ll stop in if Confession’s don’t keep ’m too late—” 
and the next instant was ruefully regarding the graining 
in the door panel (on the outside), painfully wonder¬ 
ing if he’d have a black and blue spot on his forehead 
in the morning. Rid of him, Coggeshall slipped into his 
top coat in an ugly humor at this unlooked for an- 


V 


I 


282 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

nouncement, his face wrinkled in a frown. Why in the 
devil’s name had Blake chosen this night to swing the 
strike? And why did Father 0 Connor pick this night 
for the conference Coggeshall had pretended he wanted 
to have? Had he been superstitious this marvelous se¬ 
quence of ill-toward happenings would have daunted him, 
but he was not. He wanted things to occur in perfect ro¬ 
tation—his engagement to Grace, the smashing of the 
strikers, the downfall of the priest, the shaking of the 
dust of Fern Park from his conquering heels and now— 
fury! 

But the almost enervating softness of the night quickly 
put him in good spirits and as he picked his way over 
the pool studded walks and muddy crossings he sang a 
little to himself—then, between rehearsing his story and 
thoughts of his brother (which persisted in obtruding) 
he went along very merrily and blithely. Caution was 
necessary in the progress of streets by a fastidiously ves¬ 
tured individual as the haloed circles of light thrown out 
by the niggardly gasolene lamps rendered the footing 
all the more precarious with the deep shadow formed 
without their fringes. For this reason if for no other 
he hailed the entrance to the “Mansion” with a sigh of 
relief, hastening up the sandy drive to the massive door 
with the broad belt of light from the hall dome as a 
guide. As he had confidently surmised she was at home 
and engaged in the generous duty of reading to her uncle. 

It was not long, to Coggeshall’s great delight, ere the 
Old Man signified his intention of retiring; age was 
beginning to tell on the once vigorous frame and he 
daily took less interest in all those topics, both of the 
Mill and the church, that had once engrossed him. Grace 
eyed him solicitously as he stooped out of the room and 
with a shake of the head and a pathetic gesture intimated 
to the guest her belief that the man who had been father 
and mother to her was not long for this world. Which, 
had she but known it, was all the more propitious in the 
shrewd eyes of her lover, who saw in this failing of the 
old man a greater incentive to pressing his suit as pro¬ 
viding for her after her old protector had passed away. 
It meant the finding of greater favor in his eyes. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


283 


Gradually, in the midst of the ordinary converse, an 
indefinable, unusual constraint crept over the pair and 
served to make lag the familiar topics; everything seemed 
to fail at once, their very regards became embarrassed, 
until suddenly, to his great relief, she arose and walked 
to the piano; it afforded him a respite and a chance to 
gather into coherency the rush of thought that in her 
presence had been sadly scattered. 

Negligently seated by the fireside with more sang froid 
in his attitude than he really possessed he settled him¬ 
self contentedly for what she announced over her shoulder 
was to be a “Scotch Harmonic”; and it was a rare vision 
with which he feasted his eyes as she sat easily before 
the instrument to caress it with a fond, deft touch that 
(beguiling the tones with loving cadences) testified to 
her real love of music and harmony. 

Tonight he underwent a weird, uncanny change in the 
drift of his dreams. Where in the past he had tolerated 
rather than encouraged her tender rendering of the old 
Scotch folk songs, with their lingering, haunting stress 
on the lowly scenes of home and family, he came to the 
point where he fairly reveled in them; perhaps the spell 
was wrought by a picture of the mind’s eye portraying 
Grace presiding over his hearth—certain it is that over 
his gaunt spirit crept gradually, irresistibly, a soft, brood¬ 
ing, a longing comprehending nothing so much on earth 
as the going into old age in the grasp of the dreams con¬ 
jured by a rapt contemplation of a vision drawing heaven¬ 
ly strains from the ivories beneath her fingers. 

None could render the old melodies better and tonight, 
as if in rapport with his changed mood, she trilled the 
sweet old songs of the land of her ancestors with a 
piquancy and depth that was not to be denied; he leaned 
his head on his hand and covering his face with his palm 
felt a quiet satisfaction in the first swelling emotion of 
tears he had acknowledged since boyhood. It was an 
auspicious opening of his attack, it must be seized upon 
as a sign of favor from the gods and before the melting 
mood had passed from either he determined to fasten 
upon it and make known his passion and his hopes; the 
words trembling on his lips all evening would be spoken. 



284 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Home!” he sighed happily as he dropped to the bench 
by her side as the last ripple of her glorious voice died 
away to the fading hum of the wires, “home!” She 
turned quietly and with something of wonder at the al¬ 
tered tone, the changed expression on his face. “Did 
it ever occur to you” still in the awed tones, “the depths 
to be plumbed in that word for the man who has never 
really known a home?” She shrugged her shoulders a 
trifle and laughed softly as she turned the leaves of the 
music book. 

“I can’t quite fancy your interest—you have always 
had the best of homes.” He shook his head in a way 
that compelled her attention. 

“No, the mansion of my grandmother—the first abode 
I realized—was a vast apartment ruled over by my sel¬ 
fish, detestable emotions, a spot I quitted with an in¬ 
grate’s joy and sought with a fool’s reluctance.” She 
leaned against the piano and turned to survey him in mild 
astonishment. 

“I can think up nothing more surprising than that 
confession” she rejoined, with a show of interest that 
was flattering to him. 

“As a matter of fact home has always been to me the 
comforts of a bachelor apartment, bribed and cajoled 
pleasures from menials, lacking all the smooth, soothing 
touches so necessary to the wearied brain and body.” 

“Yet” with a soft smile, “being a matter of choice—” 

“Pardon me, it is not always choice—strange as that 
may seem; accidents of temperament too often lead one 
to seek renunciation of humble comforts that, lying out¬ 
side his sophistry, are inseparably connected with true 
bliss and ease. Up to my coming to Fern Park I thought 
that life held nothing more alluring, but now—” he 
caught his breath as his hand stole over to the shapely 
fingers still resting on the keys— “but now” looking 
tenderly into her eyes, “you have taught me different.” 
She essayed to disengage her hand without being forced 
to face him directly, but his grasp was, although very 
tender, secure. There was no mistaking the message of 
that voice, there was no mistaking the meaning of that 
caress, and she was too honest to attempt it. When con- 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


285 


trol had been restored to mind and body she turned to 
him. 

‘'You—you seek to flatter me I believe” with not quite 
the degree of embarrassment he deemed his due under 
the circumstances. He paused in some confusion, trying 
to marshall the figures of speech he had essayed for 
weeks. 

“Nothing said of you could be misconstrued into any¬ 
thing so stupid as flattery” he said with a quick intake of 
breath that testified to his emotion; “possessed of every 
grace intended to ensure the fancy, every art that al¬ 
lures—” 

“Please, please” she broke in, in distress, her flushed 
face mirroring the confusion of heart and mind—and 
again she would have withdrawn her hand but his weight 
on it was insistent. 

“Only listen Grace” he pleaded—the lingering accents 
on that first avowal of her name causing her to start 
visibly; confident in her silence that he had secured a 
hearing he ran on hurriedly, but none the less fervent¬ 
ly. “I want you to complete the task of detaching me 
from the idle allurements of the do nothing life that I 
have led—I beg of you to be the guide post of the future 
—you can’t help but see that I have learned”—what she 
refused to glean. 

“No, no, phase! ' she cried again with increasing per¬ 
turbation and turning laid a restraining hand on his arm, 
but he, misconstruing the gesture, seized that hand also 
forcing her to assume a position placing her within the 
range of a battery of pitiless eyes. 

“I must say it” he cried, unable now—even if he wanted 
to—to restrain himself. “I have learned to love you 
Grace—to love you as I have never believed it possible 
to love anyone—” and there was an air of eager plead¬ 
ing in his masterful voice and a gleam in his eye that 
must have forced the heart of the most obdurate, 
Yet her countenance betrayed only distress, while her 
paling and flushing features reflected anything but pleas¬ 
urable emotions—such as should have shone in the looks 
of a woman being wooed who wanted to be. She made 
a brief but vain struggle to arise—he detained her al- 




286 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


most forcibly—and thus balked she turned her head and 
permitted him to gratify himself with a starving appraisal 
of her profile. He waited quietly and patiently enough, 
secure in the memory of their relations, hopeful of a 
determination that was to draw him out of the old hard 
career into the radiant glow of a lasting affection. 

“I won’t say” she began finally in a tone of pity that 
should have aroused his suspicions, with eyes averted, 
“that this confession is either surprising or unlooked 
for—everything in the latter month has tended to warn 
me of my danger—” 

“ Danger /” in a choking echo; she shook her head. 

“I use the word with due consideration” sadly, “for 
there can be nothing but danger in constantly entertain¬ 
ing a sentiment that once harbored, must eventuate in 
reciprocation or—or” she drew her breath sharply—“re¬ 
fusal. You will have to be frank with me in admitting 
that I have not wilfully been a party to this growing at¬ 
tachment—” 

“I can’t, I can’t admit it” he cried sorrowfully. 

“Then” facing him suddenly with a surprising assump¬ 
tion of firmness” I must protest that I have not welcomed 
it.” He freed her hands at that astounding admission 
while a sickly pallor overspread his face. 

“Even granting that,” he finally managed to articulate, 
“you—you certainly can’t say you are totally indifferent 
to me, can you Grace?” with a wealth of entreaty in his 
voice that none other had ever heard. She turned to 
him with tears in her eyes—and at the signal he realized 
that he had lost. 

“As a friend—I have esteemed you exceedingly” with 
thin veneer of pity, “I have learned to admire you for 
your genius in handling the intricate problems of the 
Mill—I have enjoyed your compelling society vastly more 
than that of the ordinary mortals with whom I have been 
thrown in contact in this provincial place—” but he flung 
that all off with an impatient exclamation bordering close¬ 
ly on the profane. His face had assumed a ghastly hue. 

“That is all too trite—you are dealing in platitudes— 
‘esteem’—‘enjoyment of society’—surely, surely Grace I 
have aroused something more lasting than that within 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


287 


your soul, there must be a higher estimation on my 
homage, a holier and more durable sentiment—” then 
checked his tragic pleading with abruptness at the calm 
manifestation of unconcern beginning to replace the first 
look of distress. There was no love there! She seemed 
almost bored. For the first time since his name had 
been enrolled in the student books at Harvard University 
—the better part of his brilliant life in fact—the female 
of the species refused to melt at his simple regard or 
honeyed word; in the full, crushing realization of that 
there came over his pagan soul such a feeling as is known 
only to the unfortunate mariner when, with his anchor 
dragging and his helm useless, he knows he is drifting on 
to a precipitous shore. 

“No, Mr. Coggeshall” in soft, final tones, “I cannot 
agree with you.” 

He turned sick at heart and laying his head on the 
arm resting on the piano he hid his crestfallen, chagrined 
features. Rejused! Like the wild animal that crawls to 
its haunt to hide itself in the death agony he craved 
solitude that she might not note the woe the death 
wound she had given caused. 

And ten minutes ago—or was it ten years?—he was 
picturing her in his arms, her lovely head pillowed on his 
breast while he dilated on the plans of the honeymoon 
tour, the yacht, the southern cruise, the trip about the 
world! As in a dream from which he hazily believed 
Larry would eventually awaken him, he heard her run 
on, condolingly it is true, but with the condolence that 
is on the lips. Something crashed within him and he 
knew his doom was sealed. 

“I am sorry, God knows I am sorry, if I have un¬ 
wittingly done anything to bring this about.” 

“Done/” he almost sneered in smoother accents, “it 
is true you have done nothing but what every woman 
does—which is everything. It is not necessary for you 
to do anything—other than exist; it radiates from you 
even as the beauty with which you are endowed—and 
which you have not earned nor deserved.” In that mo¬ 
ment of heart rending contrition, did a fleeting fancy of 
honest Val and the innocent little Irish girl, come athwart 


288 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


his selfish senses? He turned on her a face lined and 
shadowed—not the one he had brought there. “Do I 
understand you Grace?” he cried hoarsely, “am I to 
understand that I have failed to stir within you one chord 
of affection on which I may build hopes for the future?” 
The look she gave him needed not the shake of the head 
to answer that. 

“I have never even approached an affection for you.” 

He gripped his face between his twitching fingers as if 
to shut out his haggard countenence as well as to avoid 
her eyes, his shoulders quivering in a perfect paroxysm of 
misery—this paragon indeed, this epitome of surface cul¬ 
ture, this infidel cynic, now fairly groveled before the 
human his philosophy had endowed with the weapons to 
crush—exhibiting in his downfall the very distinguishing 
characteristics of woe of the common, simple, ignorant 
Mill hand—and felt himself within his rights in being 
merely human. It sent dismay to her gentle soul—her 
conscience began to accuse of something. Then he sud¬ 
denly righted himself. 

“At least don’t say it in that offhanded way Grace” he 
said with a smile more piteous than his grief, “and don’t 
attemp to decide tonight—it isn’t fair to me—give me the 
benefit of deliberation—think it over earnestly, I can 
wait a million years if necessary—I may have been too 

abrupt, too—” and hesitated, it was awful hard to admit 

—“too sure—love such as mine is prone to that, there is 
something behind it all you may want to reason over 
with yourself” he coaxed, “a something that when re¬ 
vealed can be made plainer by me. Tell me you will 

do this Grace, only promise me you will” in a burst of 

perfect frenzy, of hopeless yearning that rendered him 
beside himself, the words fairly pouring out as if im¬ 
pelled by the torrent raging within his heart. For just 
one tortured moment, a moment in which the handsome, 
patrician features were thrust almost into her own as 
he besought—she seemed to him to hesitate, to ponder, 
to yield—then the no less distinguished features of Lance 
Fleetley materialized between them and with a soft, pure¬ 
ly involuntary flush—that he noted and was astounded 
by—she proffered the final decision. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


289 


“I know nothing calculated to alter my mind” and 
crossed the room as much to hide her sudden access of 
elation in the conjuration of the absent Fleetley as to 
afford him the chance for a graceful withdrawal, if he 
so desired. He stood transfixed where she had quitted 
him—stupefied. 

And what might have been her sentiments had she known 
at that moment that fifty per cent of his agony was the 
result of wounded pride, a surcharge of galled vanity 
setting acquiver every nerve within, tying his usually 
glib tongue, wrenching at his heart strings—in short, 
that the fact she found it within her power to refuse him, 
hurt fully as cruelly as the fact that she did? But he 
was not going down with a single shot left in his locker 
—the good red fighting blood of a long and illustrious 
ancestry flamed to assert itself—another word and he was 
done. 

“I have no desire to intrude on the sanctuary of your 
inner thoughts” he managed to say in the old, suave flu¬ 
ency that at least challenged her admiration, “but am I 
to consider my case hopeless simply because the nook I 
sought to occupy has been taken by another?” She es¬ 
sayed a startled, haughty glance to rebuke and reproach 
at once—but under the lightning glint of those com¬ 
manding eyes even her determined spirit was forced to 
falter—before she well comprehended the import and des¬ 
pite the aid of her pride a tell tale flush swept from 
throat to forehead and her conscious looks dropped, abash¬ 
ed; he bit his lip, clinched his fists while a something 
dangerously near an expletive trembled on his tongue— 
then with a shrug of the shoulders he forced a bitter 
laugh. 

“I thank you for your candor” with a mock bow of 
gratitude, and in the harshly rendered tones she knew 
he revealed himself again, that all signs of weakness 
were obliterated. 

“As you please” icily, angry with herself for her in¬ 
voluntary show of weakness. He tried to laugh again 
but it sounded as ghastly as his face looked. 

“You feel quite sure of yourself—and the object on 
which you have squandered your affections?” he sneered. 



290 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“It is not a topic for discussion” icily, trying to res¬ 
train herself in the face of his evident lack of control. 

“For which I am very sorry”—moving toward the 
door without so much as a glance in her direction—“for 
your sake—and his!” She felt she was being insulted 
but held herself in mercy. 

“On his behalf I thank you” and favored him with her 
back. 

“As of course the one crawling from the gutter will 
feel the fall back more than the one who stooped to lift 
him from it.” It took every atom of self will to hold 
herself in at that, but she still considered his wound and 
mercifully restrained herself, choking back resolutely the 
bitter taunts that strove for expression. 

“Again I thank you—in his name.” He essayed a sore 
attempt at a mocking laugh. 

“Despite which I choose to remain at your service— 
remember that” then paused a moment to gaze about the 
room and at her. It was the last time he could come into 
this room and have it lighted by her presence—it was the 
last time she would exchange a pleasant word with him 
—henceforth it was to be barren with her absence and 
as he took that last, long look he knew that he gazed 
upon the features of a woman who might possibly re¬ 
turn his regards in friendly fashion, for the last time. 

But once out in the gloom of the depressing night 
his crushing loss recurred with extra force and he seemed 
to collapse mentally. Stumbling, almost staggering down 
the cheerless drive he clinched and unclinched his fingers 
while from his lips issued volley after volley of hideous, 
blighting, nasty blasphemy—muttered on himself, Fleet- 
ley and the cause of his destruction. He carried the look 
and manner of a maniac as he retraced his way through 
the murky winter night with its deceptive spring balmi¬ 
ness—a type of all womankind he told himself in a 
frenzy of rage—unnoticed, unnoting, with a greeting for 
none, plodding on dazedly in a stricken manner as if 
careless of ever returning to his apartments or its false 
mockery of life and gaiety. 

It was all over, the first dream shattered ere it had 
well begun, succeeded by a mean spirit of revenge utterly 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


291 


incompatible with the demeanour of one of his birth and 
culture. A demon struggled within him. The Mill hands 
must now suffer, the more so that their misery would 
strike at her who had unconsciously brought it about, 
while as for the intruding priest—by heaven he would 
make him rue the day he had interposed! And Fleetley! 
He took savage satisfaction in the reflection that the 
British Consul had not moved his august personage for 
nothing and that it was for no common criminal he had 
cabled to Scotland Yard for a man to bring records. He 
staggered into his room and flinging aside the garments 
that he felt (with a shudder) were like unneeded wedding 
clothes, he dropped into a chair and gulped down glass 
after glass of the inspiriting Cognac. 

He sent word for Larry, but that worthy had not shown 
up yet—at the Little Christmas festivities Coggeshall as¬ 
sured himself with an oath—and wished he were here 
to comfort him with fresh word in the hunt for his 
brother; then tried to make the best of the situation while 
waiting for word from the greasy Malachi concerning the 
meeting in the Rookery. A terrifying depression began 
to creep over him as he likened his situation to that of 
the mourners in the house after the body had been re¬ 
moved—in the midst of which there came a knock that 
aroused him in a flash. Hoping it was Larry he opened 
quickly—to be greeted by the smiling face of Father 
O’Connor, peering at him out of the dimly lit hall, taken 
aback it must be confessed by the haggard face into which 
he looked. 

By a gigantic effort Coggeshall pulled himself together 
and with a forced smile thrust out his hand in greeting 
and pulled the young priest into the room, which ac¬ 
complished he pulled a chair forward and pressed him 
into it with murmurs of pleasure at the visit. Taking a 
seat across the table from him the oddly matched pair 
confronted each other, one overwrought, inwardly seething, 
a horrible black abyss yawning at his feet, the only world, 
he knew or cared for, rocking and reeling under him, 
nothing for a future, hell within his soul, hell within his 
brain—despite its intellectuality—hell within his blood; 
the other, predestined for the paths to heaven, with all a 


292 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


beckoning life before him, with the world for which he 
professed a contempt solidly under his feet, the base of 
his launching to a better world, calm of soul and mien, 
gentleness, benignity and brotherly love in his heart and 
soul and blood—merciful God what a contrast in Thy 
creatures! 

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning 
with a prayer of self abnegation until he closed them at 
night with a blessing for the souls entrusted to his shep¬ 
herding, there was not one thought of self—trusting, hope¬ 
ful, refusing to be crushed by the burden laid upon him 
by the sanctifying hands of the bishop. 

And so they confronted each other in a long, moody 
contemplation. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


293 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“Have you been sick?” was Father O’Connor’s first 
question provoked by the unnatural pallor of the usually 
health tinted features of his host; the latter smiled, a 
trifle wanly it is true, and shrugged the question aside. 

“A rather nasty and unlooked for upset in my—my— 
calculations has disturbed me—nothing more” with the 
evenness of the well balanced casuist. “Besides, it’s as 
dull as Chelsea here alone without Larry.” The eye of 
the priest lit. 

“He’s a jewel, surely—a great deal better I sometimes 
think than we even give him credit for being. Of late 
he has petitioned me to pray for his intention, which, I 
should judge seems to be on the point of reaching a 
happy termination.” Coggeshall shot a quick, wondering 
look at him. 

“Do you think so?” he asked curiously. The other 
nodded. 

“I have no reason to doubt God’s goodness and mercy.” 
Coggeshall stirred uneasily in his chair. 

“I envy you your undeviating faith” half ironically; 
Father O’Connor laughed softly. 

“Well might anyone envy another the possession of an 
untainted gift direct from the hand of God Himself.” 
The host aroused as if to end the unusal colloquoy. 

“ Do you drink, Father?” He smiled and shook his 
head decidedly. “But surely you are not too pious to 
smoke?” Yes, he admitted the negotiating of that ter¬ 
rific vice, at which the super proffered a box of prime, 
smooth colored Havanas and striking a match lit for the 
priest who, after a few long, satisfying puffs, thanked 
him. 

“Really” as he sank in his chair, “you will spoil 
my taste for the rare cabagerinos in which I indulge 
habitually” and both laughed like school boys at the re¬ 
flection. They smoked in agreeable silence for a few 
moments and then the priest looked enquiringly at 
Coggeshall. 


294 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Yes” in answer to the look as, his form lolling deep¬ 
ly in the chair with one leg thrown negligently over the 
arm, his eye followed the tiny smoke wreath to the ceil¬ 
ing, “I wanted to see you one of these nights—I wasn’t 
particularly looking for you tonight though.” Father 
O’Connor knocked the ashes from his cigar end. 

“I’m through Confessions earlier than usual tonight—I 
am very much afraid some of my penitents” with a deep 
sigh, “are where they should not be tonight.” Cogges- 
liall eyed him covertly through half closed lids while a 
suspicion of a satisfied grin overspread the grim features. 

“You mean—” innocently. 

“They are discussing Mill matters that they’d better 
leave alone at this juncture.” 

“Now you’re talking” with well assumed interest, “you 
are of course aware—” 

“That the hot heads are still agitating.” A solemn 
silence followed that, each seemingly occupied with his 
own thoughts. 

“Well Father O’Connor” the super said finally in meas¬ 
ured tones, “it may look a trifle strange that you and I 
are here on the same side of the fence—” 

“Not at all” he broke in impetuously, “why shouldn’t 
the two the most interested in the welfare of these poor 
people be viewing the scene from the same point of view?” 
Coggeshall appeared to nod his entire acquiescence of 
that. 

“After all, you are right—why shouldn’t we?” with 
a glance his way, a mixture of doubt and triumph. “You 
are also aware I suppose that a strike is contemplated?” 
He nodded sadly. 

“I am” he confessed. 

“So I violate no confidence in informing you once and 
for all—that if they vote a strike this time—the Craigie 
Mills in Fern Park will close —forever 9 with a harsh, biting 
emphasis on the last word that gave it full meaning. The 
guest’s face blanched involuntarily—which the host noted 
with a great deal of satisfaction; what a home coming 
for the old pastor! 

“That is not a bluff for publication Mr. Coggeshall?” 
painfully; he wagged his head decidedly again, poured 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


295 


himself another drink—but on second thought apparently 
preferred to let it stand, untasted. 

“I am telling you even though you may use the in¬ 
formation to wreck my plans again—” Father O’Connor 
flung up a deprecating hand—“I put myself in your power 
you see, but that information is straight goods, all wool 
and a yard wide. Craigie’s health is breaking—he is 
ready to get out any moment while I”—a spasm of pain 
unnoticed by the priest passed over his face— “I have 
already determined to do so.” That information, straight 
from headquarters, startled the priest. 

“You mean to say—” breathlessly. 

“That I am going to pull up stakes” and there was a 
hollow bitterness in the admission that to the keen sense 
of the confessor betrayed a story—a tale to be unfolded 
later. “My patience is worn out—I’ve come to the end 
of the cable as far as associating with this misery is 
concerned; I shall now seek my normal level.” Sur¬ 
prising in its bleak telling the priest could not but feel 
that it was inevitable—there could be nothing of finalty 
in this life for the good liver, the millionaire, the sen¬ 
sualist. Yet he felt a thrill of pity that he could not per¬ 
severe in a sphere where he was bound to be a force for 
the uplift of the community as well as the Mill; it was 
a flat rejection of heavenly attributes. “With Craigie off 
the Board” he ran on monotonously, “with me out of 
the place and a fire brand here instead—the hands will 
not only not get what they demand but stand an elegant 
chance of losing all that I have granted them.” After 
making due allowance for “What I have granted them ” 
the priest was ready to admit the bleakness of the out¬ 
look and he sighed deeply. 

“What is to be done?” he murmured as if to himself 
over and over again. Coggeshall dropped his air of 
boredness and learning over the marble topped table 
that separated them (with a betraying eagerness) spoke 
decidedly. 

“You know what’s to be done,” with a challenging look 
at him. In a twinkling a battle ground had been selected 
for while Coggeshall believed that Bridget had taken his 


296 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


hint and revealed the Mill situation in the Confessional 
she had indeed said so much confidentially to Father 
O’Connor as regarded her status with Val Crosby that he 
was no longer able to discriminate between an open avowal 
and a sealed confession—and simply put him on his 
guard against dropping anything. It was a play at cross 
purposes that the presence of the third party, Bridget, 
required to untangle—and the super didn’t want her to 
know just then, as he simply intended to use the words 
of the priest to taunt her with being betrayed. For some 
minutes while the clock on the mantel ticked off the 
seconds restlessly, painfully, monotonously, with the street 
sounds wafting themselves uneasily through the still open 
windows, they confronted each other, Coggeshall unmask¬ 
ed, daring the priest to drop a word and the latter hold¬ 
ing himself in control with the ease of practice, refusing 
to admit by word or expression of face that anything 
had come to him through the sacred tribunal. 

“Yes—go see what they contemplate—then combat it” 
evenly; Coggeshall with a half smothered exclamation 
sank back in his chair. Nothing had been dropped in an 
unguarded moment to fling back at his clerk. 

“Oh well” with assumed impatience and a disgusted 
fling of the hand, “you know perfectly well to what ex¬ 
tent reason will penetrate with that bunch of mad ones.” 

“What would you advise?” The super turned on him 
again. 

“I am not caring particularly for myself—for the Mill 
even—what course you pursue—it is for you to say what 
disposition shall be made of these deluded people.” 

“I can see very clearly that whatever the issue you 
need no longer be concerned, but to me who must remain 
it is vital; candidly I cannot see my way clear.” He 
rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and covering 
his face with his hand gave himself over to bitter cogi¬ 
tation. The end had come apparently for the Craigie 
Mill, the wrong element was in the saddle for the hands 

what the departure of Val meant he now sorrowfully 
perceived; had much of the knowledge of its significance 
come to him outside of the church he could have acted 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


297 


vigorously, but so entangled and ensnared were the vari¬ 
ous points he dared not move for fear of betraying by 
word or look that which he was obliged to conceal. 
Coggeshall, with a hard sneer on his face, saw the gray 
shadow creep between the twitching fingers and gloated 
over the miserable scene. 

“Oh, come” he said finally with a pretended burst of 
comradeship, “ 4 What can’t be cured must be endured’ 
you know—let us make the best of a bad situation” and 
rising as he spoke he walked across the room to his 
writing desk. “I want to show you that my heart is in 
the right place and even if we do differ a trifle on re¬ 
ligious dogma I can admit that you have right on your 
side too. Please accept this” and he handed the astounded 
man a check. His face flushed and his eyes glowed. 

“I must thank you not only for the gift but the better 
spirit underlying it” he said warmly, “but I don’t want 
to have you think that it is necessary to purchase my 
interest in these people and their—” 

“That’s all right” he said heartily, and raised a hand 
to ward off further thanks, “I have long contemplated it, 
the recollection of our strained relations simply making 
it a hard matter, that’s all.” Then as if in sudden recol¬ 
lection. “What about this Yal Crosby business?” with 
startling abruptness. He was looking squarely into the 
eyes of Father O’Connor as he put that question, but 
saw nothing more than a quick, involuntary flush mount 
to the forehead of the priest—which the swift and irre¬ 
levant query might have caused. It still skirted the 
muddle of Val and Bridget—there was nothing of it he 
felt at liberty to reveal—but one thing was now certain 
—he pondered it, with the malignant eye of the super 
fixed on him in hypnotist like intensity—it was the pur¬ 
suing of a vague something concocted by the other and 
it reeked of the dimensions of a plot. They were now 
staring at each other over the gleaming table top. 

“Crosby is doing finely in Sebatus I hear” the priest 
said eventually, with disconcerting evenness; a cold sneer 
forced itself to the lips of the baffled super. 

“Oh, sure, that is all right—but what about his exit 


298 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


from Fern Park—what had my efficient little clerk to 
do with it, eh?” Father O’Connor laughed lightly, the 
fencing was not disagreeable. 

“Everything—nothing is easier than to fasten the blame 
on the woman—our first parent did it—” 

“Bosh!” he snapped, “you know that line of soft soap 
can’t fool me—” then the priest broke in heatedly. 

“I tell you that as a man” he came back almost angrily, 
“I know only that Val has sought other fields and that 
Bridget White has decided to choose her own sphere of 
activity—I shall brook no cross questioning as to the 
relation of those facts to the present turbulence in the 
Mill—for the good and sufficient reason that there has 
been some deviltry practiced recently—a something for 
which someone may have to answer presently—perhaps 
sooner than they think—to God.” Coggeshall could not 
but admire that outburst—it was the first manifestation 
of spirit Father O’Connor had shown and he secretly 
liked it. 

“Oh, well” with a gesture meant to convey the inten¬ 
tion of offhandedness, but in reality to hide his chagrin, 
“we digress—you have my check” at which the priest 
glanced at it again—he was amazed to note that it was 
for two hundred dollars, a veritable Godsend as he had 
a note coming due in a day or two and his last prayer 
before quitting the church had been to St. Joseph to 
aid him in settling it—a prayer quickly answered. 

“we digress—you have my check” at which the priest 
and gripped the hand of the generous benefactor, quite 
willing to relegate to the infernal regions the sudden 
bitter thoughts that had begun to take shape at the rapid 
fire of disconcerting questions during the strange inter¬ 
view. The fervent thanks, the unqualified and unstinted 
pleasure at the gift—precisely as if it were a donation 
for his own peculiar and especial benefit—rather hit the 
infidel; he was far from dead to the softer motions of 
nature. 

“You are quite welcome” he said with the first weary- 
intonation creeping back into his words. The affair with 
its losing properties was beginning to be difficult to carry 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


299 


along. He had been prompted by the basest motives in 
luring the priest to his room under the specious guise of 
a renewal of a friendship and now that he had got the 
worst of the argument he was only too willing to see his 
guest depart, to be turned over to the still harsher fate 
awaiting him. Compunction strove for the mastery of 
his breast, for villainy, whether punished within one’s 
own breast or within the walls of the penitentiary, is a 
thankless undertaking. Father O’Connor looked at his 
watch—it was past nine. 

“And now” he said as he arose to go, “I must be go¬ 
ing or I shall miss the meeting.” At which a miserable 
feeling of sorrow and shame crawled into the craven soul 
of the guilty man—he knew as well as the priest surmised 
that he was flying into danger—noted the calmness, the 
charity with which he faced a situation concocted beyond 
doubt for his undoing—possessing a lofty mien and bear¬ 
ing akin to that of the martyrs of old—of whom Cogges- 
hall had read as a historical curiosity—when they emerged 
into the amphitheatre to face the ravenous beasts. To 
add to any misgivings he might have felt in the begin¬ 
ning came the unlooked for affability of the super and 
then the gift—a something he could not refuse whatever 
his personal feelings, as the debt was pressing on the build¬ 
ing funds and he grimly reflected that it was a squaring 
of the obligations to be incurred by the enemies of his 
people later. 

“Father Byrne coming back soon?” Coggeshall en¬ 
quired with feigned interest, as they stood a moment by 
the open door. 

“I expect him any day now” then suddenly shot a ques¬ 
tion on his own side, “what are your sentiments toward 
the church, Mr. Coggeshall?” He laughed at that—then 
sobered as quickly. 

“Totally unconcerned.” 

“But has the example of our good Larry accomplished 
nothing for you?” The hard face softened at that name. 

“If anything on this green earth could soften me toward 
any religion it would be the unwavering gentleness and 
charity of that unlettered fellow” he said with an earnest- 


300 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

ness of which the priest believed him incapable. I 
guess he’s what your democratic institution makes saints 

out of, isn’t he?” 

“Could there be anything more unobtrusively appeal¬ 
ing than the daily life of that man?” Coggeshall shook 
his head. 

“Even outside the melancholy part he has played in 
my family history I could take him to me with a trifle 
more feeling than is usually manifested toward a menial. 
He turned and thoughtfully paced the floor, then return¬ 
ed to his politely waiting guest. “You know something 
of that intention for which he has asked your prayers?” 

“Tracing a member of your family?” 

“Do you know” and there came a sudden flush to the 
pallid features, “I have a presentiment, or its equivalent 
emanating from my Celtic origin, that he is about to suc¬ 
ceed?” finishing in an awed whisper. 

“Really?” 

“I can’t shake it—he has been more mysterious than 
usual lately and I ascribe it to his reluctance to furnish 
me with news of small importance. He has been absent 
a good part of the latter two days now—an unlooked 
for thing in him as he firmly believes none can look after 
me except himself—” he took another turn across the 
room. “Call it superstition or what you will, but I have 
a sensation of learning something soon.” 

“I pray to God you may be right” and coming to him 
again gripped his hand—the hand of a known enemy— 
warmly. “Without knowledge of its strict import I have 
been offering up the prayers of the Mass for it—I am 
sure you will yet learn the disposal of the child.” 

Winthrop still unconsciously clung to his hand in awe 
—these people had made him, the infidel, the scoffer, the 
enemy—the object of their prayers! It was hard to com¬ 
prehend, but looking into the fine eyes of the priest he 
was forced to—and but a few weeks ago he would have 
hooted at the proposition! Little dreaming that the priest 
had already gleaned the animus of his actions he stood 
in mute cogitation on the beastly part he was playing in 
the destruction of a man who had happened across his 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 301 

proud path in life—a dubious path at best—and who had 
performed an action that should have merited his praise. 
1 or a moment, each seemed to be loath to break the em¬ 
barrassed silence that ensued—then the priest turned to 
go. It was not too late yet to save him, but in the very 
instant a wave of pity surged within Coggeshall’s soul 
there came a recollection of Grace and the bitter refusal, 
of 1 leetley, of his wounded pride—dearer far to him than 
life itself—and watching the priest going quickly down 
the carpeted hallway to disappear down the stairs, the 
old hatred reasserted itself; he stepped back into the 
room a prey of all the old, unworthy, disgusting in¬ 
clinations. 

“Go” he muttered, “go, you foolish, intermeddling ec¬ 
clesiastic” and drained the glass he had poured out long 
since, “go and replace the ill will and enmity of Winthrop 
Coggeshall for the tenderer emotions of Skip Blake and 
his ignorant crew! If you get by them I have no more 
to say” with a laugh at the prospect. 

He dropped on a couch, a livid streak coming over his 
wan features at recollections of the first rebuff as well 
as the manner in which the priest had fended his hints 
involving the secrets of the Confessional, for he firmly 
believed Bridget had told the news in that manner, and 
he thought he could entice Father O’Connor into dropping 
some unguarded word that, flung back at Bridget, would 
add to the accusation to be made against him at the meet¬ 
ing to which he walked so innocently. With the per¬ 
sistent attention to the Cognac bottle his face eventually 
took on a flush—were it not for the bitter emotions seeth¬ 
ing and boiling within him he must wind up helplessly 
drunk—but the liquor only seemed to be absorbed in 
the tissues of hate quivering within; the more he drank 
the keener and more cruel his regards. 

Just at that moment, sweetly and clearly through the 
open windows, floated the strains of the chimes of the 
church—the chimes that had been the pet project of 
Father Byrne and which he had acquired after a heart 
rending campaign among the hard pushed parishioners. 

It was pretty late for their ringing but B’teeste, the French 


302 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


Canadian musician on his way to the duty earlier in the 
evening had been waylaid by his fun loving Irish boon 
companions and been lured—an unresisting victim—from 
one house to another where the celebration of Little 
Christmas coldly served up the lagniappe of his recent 
brilliant “Noel”; now he was making up for lost time, 
being one of those gifted artists supposed (for some 
inscrutable reason) to be more qualified with genius when 
half intoxicated than when sober, and the morose Cogges- 
hall was forced to content himself with the rendition of 
church airs headed by the solemn “Adeste Fideles.” 

In a moment the quiet town was aquiver with the simple 
church tunes, tunes that even he recognized and under 
whose influence—aided by his loneliness—even his flinty 
heart grew soft until he was forced to acknowledge a 
tenderer sensation. Once indeed he had imagined asking 
the pastor to sound the chimes at his wedding with Grace, 
the dream was dispelled—an involuntary moan of min¬ 
gled sorrow and pain welled from his full heart. He was 
not the only one enchanted by the weird notes—the roister¬ 
er halted suddenly in religious awe—the lover hushed 
his tale and listened under a spell—the men sneaking to 
the Rookery, the men already there, hearkened to the 
purifying voice of Mother Church as after centuries of 
appeal she still reiterated her charity and love for her 
children. 

What the thoughts, what the emotions aroused within 
the breast of Father O’Connor as he made his way to the 
meeting place after quitting the hotel none but he and 
God might know; certain it is, that, thrown into the whirl¬ 
pool of the corruption of Capital and Labor, offered from 
the first as a victim of the slings and arrows of the baf¬ 
fled operators, confided in implicitly both in and out of 
church by the unfortunate people sought to be held the tools 
of the unreckoning and unscrupulous employers, he could 
not but be the prey of many doubts as he approached the 
climax of the torture. Enough had been gleaned in his 
talk with Coggeshall to arouse a suspicion that a plot that 
had its inception in the disturbing of the relations of 
Bridget and Val had been hatched; what its bearing on 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


303 


him he could not even conjecture—nor did he care. What 
chiefly concerned him was the certainty that Crosby had 
been driven from Fern Park and the notorious Skip sub¬ 
stituted, comprehending his own return to the vortex for 
a further trial of his strength or a revealing of his weak¬ 
ness. And as he neared the gloomy old tumble down 
pile brooding by the side of the black rushing waters of 
the river, as he heard the soft strains of the bells, as he 
noted figures slinking or stalking boldly in his direction 
—he uttered a short and fervent prayer to God, not for 
preservation from personal danger, but that his unfor¬ 
tunate people might have the impending catastrophe avert¬ 
ed. 


304 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Within an hour after Coggeshall groped his way down 
from the mansion on the Hill another figure ran reckless¬ 
ly up the slippery walk with the haste of one on urgent 
business; as it came into the ray of light streaming through 
the immense glasses in the front door it was seen to be 
Fleetley—breathing hard from his rapid locomotion and 
bearing the unmistakable traces of one laboring under a 
terrible stress. His short and snappy ring at the door 
was tardily answered by the sleepy domestic who, having 
given up notions of more company that night, had taken 
the liberty to retire. He asked for Miss Colquhoun. 

“I am under the impression she has retired” she ob¬ 
jected coldly, in recognizing one of the Mill hands; he 
laughed unimpressed. 

“Tell her that Mr. Fleetley is here and that if she doesn’t 
care to see me I shall send up my message.” That di¬ 
rection was grudgingly accepted, although she graciously 
permitted him to stand in the hall while she ran up the 
broad stairs; then she returned in a hurry with a new 
light in her eye and a different demeanour, that, losing 
some of its frost, gave evidence of the kindly reception of 
his name. So impressed was she inded that she at¬ 
tempted a bit of a flirtation with the handsome hand as 
she idled about the room ostentatiously—but he was im¬ 
mune even to her dainty feminine conceits as he held his 
peace abstractedly, noting which she pranced from the 
room with a final grimace on her pretty face, intended 
to convey her contempt for his slowness. In another 
moment Grace, every sign of the recent tumult obliterated, 
ran eagerly into the room. 

“He isn’t here, yet” with a gesture of impatience with 
his clinched fist; she paused with a gasp of dismay and 
motioned him to a seat near her. 

“Do you suppose he had reconsidered for any reason 
and backed out?” she asked anxiously; he shook a de¬ 
cided negation. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


305 


“Not Val Crosby” he said emphatically, “when he 
said he would come he meant it.” 

“I am quite sure I had his directions right.” 

“Just as I gave them?” wrinkling his brow musingly. 
She repeated the street and number in Sebatus and he 
agreed with her. 

“Quite right” he said and resumed his bewildered cogi¬ 
tation. 

“The meeting is taking place is it?” 

“Yes” bitterly, “the blatherskites are in full swing by 
this.” 

“And the certain trend—?” 

“Strike or bust; Father O’Connor is to be there also.” 
She started at that. 

“The priest—what can he do now?” in wonder; he 
grinned. 

“Help embellish the scene of slaughter.” 

“So” slowly and thoughtfully, “my surmise aroused 
by Bridget’s confession was right.” 

“Mr. Winthrop Coggeshall was not born yesterday” 
and at mention of that name a tide of recollection swept 
over her which, had the sapient Mr. Fleetley comprehend¬ 
ed the flush mantling her face, might have turned his 
solicitude for the Mill hands into genuine concern for 
his own cause—but the modest fellow was blissfully ig¬ 
norant of the current that had set in in his favor. 

“Even yet I fail to see the connection—” 

“Thrift, New England thrift,” dryly, “he is going to 
kill two birds with one stone—the interfering priest and 
the workers.” 

“And the procedure?” 

“Lure him to the meeting and charge him with being 
bought out by the Board—” 

“But that is too thin—” she exclaimed; he shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“You don’t know how gullible a working man is under 
the leadership of a crook!” 

“Still you can warn him!” 

“Of what? What am I supposed to know?” signifi¬ 
cantly. She sighed. 


306 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“True—it is all relegated to Val.” They fell into a 
solemn silence, akin to that of the night after the walk 
from the post office, when each was full of many thoughts 
and strong temptations to utter them—and social con¬ 
straint still intervened to prevent a mutual understanding. 
He permitted his notions of caste to defer the declara¬ 
tion that in his guileless soul he believed would only en¬ 
tail embarrassment for her, and dismissal forever from 
her presence, for him. 

And despite the pleasure afforded even in being per¬ 
mitted to sit in her presence, his conscience reproved him 
for an apparent waste of precious time; a train was due 
from the City on the New York and New England soon 
and he arose reluctantly to meet it in the vain hope that 
Val might be aboard. Here it may be well to explain 
that the day before, Grace (Val not having returned a 
decided answer to the frantic appeal of his sweetheart to 
come back to Fern Park and avert a certain strike) at 
the instigation of the loyal Lance had sent him a special 
delivery letter in which she had revealed things she would 
not have uttered were the occasion less forceful. They 
had confidently awaited a telegraphic response to that, 
and now, with the crucial meeting under way, there was 
a dismal silence from the one individual capable of fore¬ 
stalling the machinations of the traitorous Skip and save 
hundreds of men from economic suicide. Still too deeply 
preoccupied to note symptoms, Fleetley bade her a curt 
good night, promised to send word of whatever import 
and stalking down the walk disappeared in the gloom, 
little dreaming that she stood just within the partly closed 
door as if reluctant to lose sight of him for the night. 

On his hurried way to the station he met Father O’Con¬ 
nor—he hesitated a moment and then under the impulse 
of the instant made one more effort to divert him. 

“Are you going to the Rookery, Father?” he asked 
after the greeting. 

“Yes—shall I be too late for the meeting?” 

“I’m mighty afraid you won’t” he said crisply; for 
an instant the priest wavered. 

“Indeed? Why?” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 307 

“Your presence there portends no further good to the 
cai ^ se ’ grimly; Father 0 Connor laughed in his quiet way. 

“I shall chance it, however—” 

‘ Take a fool s advice—don’t.” But the priest, as if 
fearful of being persuaded turned hastily and went on 
his way, leaving f leetley, nonplussed at this exhibition 
of stubbornness, to pursue his gloomy way, plunged in 
many and conflicting emotions. 

Still lost in thought he stepped upon the station plat¬ 
form just as the train panted in and about the first pas¬ 
senger to alight and run into his waiting arms was—Val! 
He gave him a mighty shake, a terriffic grip of the 
hand and then with a near yell of joy and relief, pushed 
him ahead and so on to the hall almost on a dead run,, 
puffing out some explanation as they careered along until 
the old pile with its storm tossed denizens hove in sight 
—leaping to the front as if in response to the call of the 
bugle to charge. 

Larry too, was on the train, although neither perceived 
him; he made as if to intercept them but they were too 
fast for him and seeing them disappear as if pursued, he 
halted and turned in the direction of the hotel. There 
was a skip to his walk as he strode along, an occasional 
broad grin and often a burst of song—evidently Larry 
too had imbibed the spirit of the wild night along with 
some other tangible spirits and found it difficult even on 
the public thoroughfare to repress his signs of satisfac¬ 
tion with himself, the community and the world in gen¬ 
eral. He stopped at the parish house on the hill—the 
priest had sallied forth after Confessions the old house¬ 
keeper informed him and with an exclamation of disap¬ 
pointment Coleman turned again for Coggeshall’s apart¬ 
ments, still whistling, singing and occasionally laughing 
aloud. 

A few moments before Father O’Connor had mounted 
the ill lighted steps of the Rookery, greeted here and there 
by his own people and shunned by those the arch villain 
Blake had poisoned against him with his bigoted hints— 
hints inspired by the very man he had just quitted, whose 
words had been sentiments of esteem for him! He was 


308 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

readily admitted into the hall and pausing by the door 
surveyed in mild curiosity the strange audience. 

With the exception of a lane down the center of the 
room, the place was packed to suffocation, the process of 
inhaling not being materially enhanced by the haze of 
blue tobacco smoke that floated in lazy circles over the 
assemblage and which would most certainly have asphyxi¬ 
ated some, were it not for the untoward weather that 
necessitated the opening of many draughty windows. At 
the moment of his arrival George Day had the floor and, 
to do him justice—being thoroughly sober—he was making 
the welkin ring with an appeal that would have made 
more cultured audiences sit up and take notice; he had 
turned surlily against Val and Fleetley since the first 
strike as, being a man of violent emotions, and opposed 
to any conciliatory tactics that looked to an alliance with 
the operators—on whom he looked as the natural and 
instinctive foe of all wage earners. 

As a matter of fact that was the prevalent notion at 
that time, a notion that the aloof employer seldom took 
pains to eradicate, leading the ignorant worker to the 
impression that the boss could not get along without him 
under any circumstances while the other, not to be out¬ 
done in sophistry, felt he had some vague and misty man¬ 
ner of making his money produce results regardless of 
the manual labor used. That he, the toiler, needed to 
obtain money some way for his livelihood, was dimly 
apparent, while, that labor was necessary to do that which 
he didn't care to undertake himself, found a place at 
times in the mind of the owner—but that the two could 
meet on common ground and dovetail the vexed and varied 
articles in a sensible manner was altogether incompre¬ 
hensible. Which muddied situation the able George was 
stirring from the bottom vigorously, with all the strength 
and fervor of a seasoned, two handed, determined fool. 

The ensuing tumult as he finished almost rocked the 
Rookery and in his place a score jumped up for recog¬ 
nition from the chair, but Skip, noting the presence of 
all that was needed to complete the festival and sure 
that his part of the bargain in forcing a strike had been 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


309 


carried out, determined to permit the priest to place his 
head in the noose Coggeshall had woven for him and 
beckoned him to the platform. As he made his way to 
it there was a mingled outburst of cheers and feeble 
hisses—he sensed the meaning, but without a glance to 
right or left made his way to the chair beside the pers¬ 
piring, excited and inflamed Skip. 

“Here he is—now let him speak f’r himself” was his 
ungracious introduction; instantly there came a hush over 
the tense audience, a solemn silence that following swiftly 
on the heels of the recent tumult was fairly appalling. 
Father O'Connor glanced about him quietly as if (as in 
the pulpit) he sought to collect his thoughts before ad¬ 
dressing his people, studying the faces turned toward 
him, some scowling, some timorous, some fearful, some 
doubtful—the bulk of his congregation ruggedly con¬ 
fident in his power to annihilate the late rumors, faith¬ 
ful to him to the end. He knew he was practically help¬ 
less and his heart bled for the discomfiture of his good 
friends awaiting in the room the moment of his triumph. 
The debate was practically over—it only needed his dis¬ 
grace to complete the spectacle and permit the curtain 
to drop on the hopes of hundreds of families in Fern 
Park. He paused in the heavy silence a long time—a 
hesitation that even his enemies might read as being 
dangerous. 

“I am here” with a quiet smile, “in what way can I 
serve you men?” Skip in his excitement rapped for 
order—and his gavel was the only sound in the hall. 

“We’re goin’t’strike!” he snarled, “what d’yer say?” 

He said simply what he said many a morning from 
the pulpit—an exhortation to their common sense not 
to strike at this time. As he proceeded he realized that 
the cards were stacked against him, that they only pre¬ 
tended to listen because they were sure of their power, 
that only the better class of his own congregation fol¬ 
lowed him with sympathy, that most listened with down¬ 
right impatience and illy concealed sneers, but he per¬ 
sisted and sat down to a very feeble imitation of applause. 

“All good ’s fur’s it goes” Skip sneered without giving 


310 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

the talented Day a chance to come in, “but that advice 
is f’rm th’bosses.” 

“And even if it were—which it is not—it might be 
good advice for all that. I have just come from a con¬ 
ference with Mr. Coggeshall—” he was conscious of a 
sickly look creeping over the appalled faces of his friends 
while the enemies made no attempt to conceal their de¬ 
rision at this confirmation of Skip’s previous hints, “and 
he has asked me to use my good offices in preventing 
strike talk—” 

“Oh, he has, has he?” yelled George, but he was quick¬ 
ly hissed into silence. 

“Yes—and his strongest reason for argument with you 
men is that at the first sign of an outburst the Mill will 
shut down.” They heard that in stunned silence. 

“Told you that, did he?” growled George; he nodded. 
“What fur?” and at that the storm broke again. 

“Shut down? I guess not, sez Con” gritted Skip when 
he could make himself heard, “we’ve heard different 
—we’ve heard there’s a move on foot t’sell us out” sig¬ 
nificantly. 

“Then since you’ve heard so much” with a quiet smile, 
“what are the details of the plot—I should know, as you 
hint they concern me.” Skip hemmed and hawed—ora¬ 
tory was not much in his line, he was more of a direct 
action man, but he did the best he could. 

“He’s t’give yer money f’r th’church—” 

“Which is quite true—I have a check for two hundred 
dollars from him now” which variously affected the crowd; 
the Catholics sat in dismayed silence, consternation writ¬ 
ten all over their honest countenances, while the rest made 
the hall tremble with their stamping, jeers and taunts. 
This had been, in the course of the program mapped 
out by Skip, hinted at earlier in the evening and hooted 
down by the astonished Catholics—yet here was the 
priest acknowledging he had taken bribe money from 
their mortal enemy! Father O’Connor betrayed no emo¬ 
tion beyond a slight shrug of the shoulders—at least he 
was finding out the mystery of his invitation to the apart¬ 
ments of Coggeshall! 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 311 

“An’that ain t all” cried Skip coming across the plat¬ 
form to where he stood. “Yer not on’y sold us f’r money 
direct—but ye’ve sold our good men away. What’re yer 
keepin’ Val Crosby away f’r?” with well simulated virtu¬ 
ous indignation. Father O’Connor started violently—this 
was news with a vengeance. 

“My dear sir” he said, “I know nothing of Val Crosby—” 

“Oh yer don’t?” now almost foaming at the mouth in 
wrath at his nonchalant reception of this base charge, 
“an’ what made him an’ little Bridget White fall out 
an’ separate?” 

Stunned, speechless, glancing helplessly about in the 
misty sea of faces confronting him, the priest sought to 
gather his wits ere venturing a reply. It was a crucial 
moment—a word one way or the other—and a life time 
of explanation would avail nothing, As in a dream he 
recalled the strange visit to the hotel and the dark man¬ 
ner of his host, the attempts to entrap him into various 
acknowledgments—and he felt his very brain reeling. There 
was a pandemonium at his feet, but he was not aware 
of it—everything was black before his eyes while he 
felt that he, the cynosure of all, was wrecking every 
chance he ever had of proving a mediator for men and 
owners. He made some choking effort at answer that 
his tormentor chose to interpret as a declination to reply. 

It was a sight to have gladdened and refreshed the 
heart of Coggeshall, still crouched in his chair where 
he had sunk after the departure of the priest, now be¬ 
ginning to grow impatient at Larry’s unaccountable de¬ 
lay; but in the very midst of his bitter curses over his 
luck that night that worthy made himself heard, as spring¬ 
ing up the stairs two and three at a leap, he came dancing 
and singing down the hall way. His eyes were filled 
with tears and as the super surveyed him coldly with 
his heavy ones he quickly formed the opinion that the 
faithful fellow had had a fall from grace and taken to 
strong drink. 

“Larry” he cried sternly, between a laugh and a curse, 
“have you been hitting the bottle again? Where in the 
dickens have you been keeping yourself?” But Larry 


312 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

after a broad grin and chuckle, eyed his employer 
roguishly and then burst into a fresh song, one never 
before perpetrated by him on an innoffensive listener, 
the burden of which was as follows: 

“ ‘Nancy has a yeller cow, Nancy has a yeller cow, Nancy 
has a yeller cow, 

An’ she milks her in th’mor-rnin’—so rorum Johnny oh— 
you’re me darlin’ oh’ ” 

A pathetic ditty that taken of itself seems rather inocuous, 
but rendered in company with the hundred odd lines 
that go with it and roared out in unison by a myriad of 
untrained and reckless voices has an abandon and swing 
calculated to drive the firmest minded to drink or suicide. 
Having rid his system of it safely he now pranced across 
to the table where—to the intense amazement of the be¬ 
holder, and for the first time since they lived together— 
he took up the bottle of Cognac, poured himself a generous 
bumper—and drained. 

“There” he smacked unctuously as he wiped his lips 
with the table cover, “that’s th’ fir’rst drop passed me 
lips th'day.” Coggeshall roared. 

“How did the rest get in—on a rain check?” he jeered, 
but the radiant Mr. Coleman ignoring his irony regarded 
him proudly and happily. 

“Never mind” he cried huskily and again broke pre¬ 
cedent by seating himself opposite the bewildered Cogges¬ 
hall, showing a face in which joy, amazement and mystery 
were struggling for the mastery, which action not convey¬ 
ing anything coherent to the amazed brain of the super 
he varied the performance by laughing—after which he 
fairly lifted the dazed Coggeshall off his feet by break¬ 
ing into a pitiful fit of weeping! Convinced now that 
the faithful fellow had gone astray and been overcome 
by the ’’crathure” he grew angry. 

“Come, come, Larry” he said sternly, “in the name of 
sense what is the matter with you? If you’re drunk go 
to bed. Come on now like a sensible fellow, don’t make 
a clam of yourself, let up, there’s a good fellow” but 
the more he pleaded the harder Larry cried, for a moment. 
Suddenly, he sat up and favored his friend with a happy 
grin, a broad County Cork radiation. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


313 


‘‘Did yer miss me?” he asked solicitously. 

‘‘I did Larry—I always do, I never dreamed you’d 
desert an old friend” reproachfully; for the first time 
Larry noted the haggard face. 

“Aren’t ye well?” he enquired solicitously again; 
Coggeshall shook his head wearily. 

“So sick I’ll never get better, Larry” and shuddered 
at the remembrance of his shattered hopes. 

“Oh, yes ye will” he cried, rather sensing a woman in 
the case—bachelor though he was—“ye’ll find someone” 
with exquisite double meaning, “that’ll take my place 
too” with a fresh hint at tears. Coggeshall shook his 
head decidedly. 

“But whom do you think I had for company tonight, 
Larry?” he said finally, willing to change the subject. 
He being in rare good humor and jovially inclined sought 
to be facetious. 

“Not me blushin’ an’ retirin’ vi’let—Malachi?” provok¬ 
ing a nasty oath that consigned not only that individual 
but his memory to the infernal regions. 

“No—Father O’Connor” at which simple announce¬ 
ment Larry turned pale—and piously made the sign of 
the cross. 

“Name o’God” he gasped, “Father O’Connor here—in 
this room—th’night?” he gasped in wonder. At this 
Coggeshall came to his feet and beginning to pace the 
floor poured out a tirade at his late company while Larry 
shrank in his chair unable to stem the terrible tide. 

“Yes” he grated, “here—and for the last time. When 
we meet again he will recognize the value of our meet¬ 
ing” and he laughed in a frenzied manner. 

“Oh dear God” Larry finally managed to say, “don’t 
talk like that, f’r th’love o’ God don’t Mr. Coggeshall—” 

“Oh, I’m sorry for you Larry—but he degraded me, 
humiliated me I tell you, and I ought to kill him for 
it” his face blazing, foam flecking his lips as the words 
tripped off his tongue, his eyes aflame, an unholy light 
in his countenance, every fine and handsome lineament in 
his face contorted with hate and rage. Larry crept across 
the room to intercept the walk that was like the tread 



314 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


of the caged lion, lines of horror succeeding the pleased 
and joyous ones of a moment before. 

“No, no, you mustn’t” he coaxed, “f’r th’ love o’ heaven 
don't, please don’t, listen—tell me ye’re sorry an’ that 
ye like him—f’r my sake, do” he cried in an agony of 
appeal, but tonight the usually complacent Coggeshall 
flung even the pleadings of the fellow he loved to one 
side disdainfully. He even clung to him with a familiar¬ 
ity that should have challenged rebuke, but Coggeshall 
contented himself with throwing him aside. 

“He started my downfall” he cried almost beside him¬ 
self, “he was the first to come between me and my am¬ 
bition, he it was—” and he w T as on the point of reveal¬ 
ing his impression that that failure turned Grace against 
him also, but Larry was clinging to him again in frantic 
appeal. 

“Listen, listen” he wailed—Coggeshall only stormed 
the more while the chimes as if cognizant of the tumult 
within his breast clanged sharply in sympathy. 

“I warned him there would be a day of reckoning, I 
told him our paths would cross again—” 

“They have, they have—be raisonable” he continued 
wildly, now frankly weeping again. 

“I’m sorry that it hurts you, Larry” he said with some 
trace of compunction—he broke in fiercely. 

“Not f’r my sake—f’r yer own—say y’re sorry an’that 
ye love him—say it avick ” in the pleading words of his 
race. 

“I don’t—I hate him—” 

“No, no” still wrestling with him and endeavouring 
to make him listen. 

“I tell you I’m revenged Larry—I’ve ruined him—he’s 
a dead man in Fern Park—” 

“Ruined him” recoiling in horror, “ruined him?” as 
if not comprehending, “that man” in frenzied accents, 
“ Revenge on him /” he cried hoarsely his face livid. Then 
he buried his face in his hands and broke into tempestu¬ 
ous sobbing. 

“Yes, he’s done—let the gang in the Rookery finish the 
work—” but Larry fell at his feet and wrapping his arms 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


315 


about his legs prevented his further progress while some¬ 
thing he sought to say came from his throat in sobbing 
gutterals. For a moment he clung there and then, realiz¬ 
ing the full import of the reference to the meeting he 
sprang to his feet and dashed for the door; Coggeshall 
was too quick for him; springing ahead he intercepted 
him with out thrust arm. 

“Not too soon, Larry” he exulted, “let the carrion rot 
with the carrion—go too soon and you’ll spoil the feast” 
with a maniacal burst of laughter. lie struggled fiercely 
but was no match for the athlete who easily subdued him. 

“Lay’me go” he panted, “lay’me go—blessed St. 
Joseph help me—don’t let me be too late—” but the other 
only held and mocked. 

“Not so soon, Larry—let him grill, I say—” 

“ ’Twill be too late” he sobbed, raging like a mad man 
—then suddenly sank to the floor moaning, “too late—too 
late—” 

“Yes—too late—” 

“An’ mother o’God —he knows all about y re brother /” 


316 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

In the very midst of a mocking imprecation that hit 
him—he threw up his hands as if to ward off a blow— 
reeled like a drunken man—caught his breath in the deep 
gasps of one coming up out of a cold plunge; not for 
an instant did he doubt the truth of that incredulous an¬ 
nouncement, for he knew Larry would not have made it 
—particularly under the circumstances—if he were not 
convinced of its genuineness. The room grew black and, 
as a native of a quake infested country never quite gets 
used to the reeling of solid earth, he could not save him¬ 
self from the giddy, sickening sensation of being whirled 
through space. Every object in the room swirled in 
murky circles, faster and still faster in which, as in a 
fevered dream, Larry, the furniture, the lights and the 
walls swung in a horrid procession; he struggled like a 
prize fighter, given the knock out blow, to seize a firm ob¬ 
ject to which he may cling until the fog has cleared and 
the temporary paralysis has faded. 

He came to himself eventually, clinging weakly to the 
table with Larry moaning and muttering in half broken 
tones of Irish phrases at the awful effect of the announce¬ 
ment coming on the heels of Coggeshall’s treachery to 
Father O’Connor; he revived with no hope of giving the 
lie to that sentence, simply possessed of a maddening im¬ 
patience to learn the full details of a story that relegated 
to oblivion all the other griefs of the evening. 

“Wirrasthru — wirraslhru —” Larry groaned, giving ton¬ 
gue to the almost forgotten lamentation of former years, his 
face drawn and white, a sore look of agony in his honest 
eyes; it was as if a knife had been plunged into his 
breast and he watched his life blood ebb through the wound. 
Without a word, Winthrop reached for the Cognac, poured 
himself a terrible dose while the glass and bottle rattled 
against each other in his nervous fingers like castanets, 
started to raise the drink to his lips with shivering muscles 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


317 


—then, with a shudder of horror (precisely as if the liquor 
mirrored some dread phantom) he dashed the glass against 
the fireplace and heard the liquid hiss in the embers. 

“What is it, Larry?” he asked in a voice that were Larry 
to hear it without seeing the lips move he never would 
have recognized, so swiftly had the shock acted, as he sank 
into his seat by the table again. For answer Larry pulled 
from his pocket a bundle of papers and threw them across 
to him. 

“Where are you going, Larry?” in wonder. He made 
a despairing gesture. 

“T’find him sor” he said simply; at this new mani¬ 
festation of fidelity the hardened Coggeshall arose and 
placed an arm about his neck. 

“You mean it, Larry?” He nodded sadly. 

“Sure I do sor” and started to leave. “I’ll go t’th’ 
Rookery an’ warn him—” Coggeshall was almost hugging 
him. 

“Do” he pleaded, “tell them it is all a lie—” 

“Yes, yes” feverishly. 

“Hurry” almost pushing him out, “tell them it was 
a trick”—Larry dashed one horny palm against the other. 

“Bad cess t’me” he cried, “I haven’t got as much sinse 
as a nursin’ babe—why didn’t I tell Val an’ Fleetley 
whin I saw thim goin’ t’th’hall—” Coggeshall recoiled as 
if from another blow. 

“Crosby—Crosby here— tonight?” he stammered hoarse¬ 
ly, and looked as if reason were about to leave him. Larry 
nodded. _ 

“Peltin’ away f’r th’Rookery as if th’Ould Nick was 
at his heels.” Under this fresh impact Coggeshall stood 
amazed. There was much more in the whole affair than 
he had dreamed possible—his plans had been laid to 
keep Val away—he was here at the critical moment; how 
and why? He recalled in a blinding flash of chagrin and 
dismay the reception of his hints of late to Grace—she it 
was had betrayed him (and his currish plans) to the 
men! And beyond doubt through the medium of—Fleet- 
ley! Oh pride, oh pride, what an awful fall! 

“Very good Larry” he said finally with a calmness that 


318 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


the faithful fellow failed to interpret, “go to the hall 
and explain all” he gulped at the affectionate words and 
Larry’s eyes danced. “Tell Val also—hurry now my good 
friend.” As Larry opened the door he thrust out his hand 
and they gripped heartily. 

“God has been good t’you this blessed night” said 
Larry determined not to lose his auspicious occasion to 
impress a lesson, “You’ve c’m t’His crib t’night t’adore 
Him—God bless you and keep you in th’right path.” The 
other listened as if in a dream, still gripping his hand. 

“Good night, Larry” but as the other made as if to go 
he still clung to him detainingly; in a moment his arm 
stole up and over the shoulder of the Irishman until he 
was embracing him as he might have embraced a brother. 
“You have proved yourself a good friend to all our 
family, Larry” he admitted brokenly, “a good friend; 
if your God rewards He must reward you above all, not 
for what you have done for the unworthy members of 
our family, but for what you have done for the unfor¬ 
tunate ones—my mother and—the priest”; he finished in 
tears. 

Larry sighed happily,, permitted the caressing touch of 
the other to linger fondly over him a few moments, while 
he sought to regain his accustomed ease—then, at the sound 
of the town clock striking the hour, started again. Cogge- 
shall now released him, reluctantly it seemed, followed him 
to the stair head, watched him with a hungry light in his 
eyes go down, watched him as he turned to wave back from 
the lobby and then at the outer door ran down a few steps 
to obtain a final look at him as he went out. Then he 
turned and with a step of a decrepit individual regained his 
room where, throwing himself into a chair, he gave him¬ 
self over to feverish study of the documents and bitter 
reflections. 

Just as Larry ran up the stairs to the hall he perceived 
Val and Fleetley with their heads against the door listen¬ 
ing intently; Skip Blake was talking and making charges 
against the interfering Father O’Connor but as he made 
mention in a loud voice of two names—Crosby and Bridget 
—the shoulders of the pair pressed against the rotting 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


319 


timbers of the door and with a crash it gave way preci- 
pating them into the room, every occupant of which 
turned at the noise. Father O’Connor, seated at the table, 
had covered his face with his hand, a prey to keenest 
sorrow at the turn affairs had taken, assured that his in¬ 
fluence with the men was at an end—praying to God for 
help, when VaFs tongue broke loose. 

“You’re a liar! ” he roared and striding into the hall 
flung his coat one way and his hat another, as tearing 
onward he strode toward the platform; for one instant 
there was deathly silence at this dramatic interruption, 
but as their astonisment faded, there went up from that 
crowd a roar that made past efforts seem like the babbling 
of a brook. “You’re a false traitorous liar” he shrieked 
again as he gained the platform to confront the quailing 
Skip. In the turbulent welcome they had opportunity 
to eye each other appraisingly—the flush coming and going 
in Skip’s bull dog features being caused, not by fear, but 
amazement at the breaking of his plans. Thus they stood 
until the storm subsided and a tense silence followed. 

“That’s what you say” Skip sneered thickly, “on’y we 
know different.” 

“We!” scornfully and chokingly echoed Val, “we —who 
do yer happen ’tmean by we? 7 ' with an accent on that word 
that made the audience grow still more silent if it were 
possible. 

“Th’union” he grated back truculently, “who d’yer 
suppose?” Val laughed a bitter imitation of mirth. 

“Oh” he said as he learned across the table to him, “I 
thought yer might ha’ meant yer owner — Coggeshall—an 
tli Board! 7 ’ At that palpable hit the crowd yelled its de¬ 
light and Skip’s eyes blazed. 

“I guess they c’n take care o’themselves” he cried 
savagely; Val clinched his fist. 

“Oh, yes—they c’n take care o’themselves—with yer 
help an’— th’help o’ th’thousand dollars yer’ve been paid 
t’betray us!” At which terrible indictment a dingy tint 
of crude ochre stole over the mottled features of the 
astounded president of the Union; murmurs broke out in 
the hall of “Hang him” and “Make him prove it.” 


320 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


“Yes, prove it” snarled the trapped Blake, encouraged 
by the cries of his clique, “prove it yer boaster!” Into 
his coat pocket dived Val’s hand and took out a letter. 

“Here it is f’r anyone that wants t’read it” he shouted 
as he waved it about, “It’s th’letter I got tellin’ me o’th’ 
trouble—here it is!” 

“Who’s it from?” demanded George Day in an awful 
voice, menacing Skip with a look, as that worthy made 
no effort to look at the letter. 

“Miss Grace Colquhoun” said Val quietly and impres¬ 
sively; there was an awed silence in which men looked at 
each other in bewilderment—then began to whisper. What 
was going on that the niece of the Old Man was writing a 
worker—what better proof of treachery some where? 
With his regards burning into the face of the shrinking 
Skip (unable to gather his wits) Val stood while the 
wretch licked his parched lips in an attempt to make the 
words come. 

“I don’t believe it” he growled doggedly, sullenly, but 
Val only laughed again—not a pleasant sounding bit of 
mirth, either. 

“Well, you don’t have t’ ” he snapped, “but t’my friends 
I’ll say that I was got out o’ Fern Park by a dirty trick 
—Miss Colquhoun detected it an’ wrote this—others had 
wrote me” he went on with a significant glance down the 
floor to where the imperturbable Lance lounged, “but I 
couldn’t believe it ’till she writes an’ exposes it all 
—th’ blood money paid t’bring about a strike t’night, an’ 
then what?” his voice soared until it was a shriek, “then 
what?” he yelled, “This—th’moment yer walked out th’ 
Craigie Mill closed f’rever!” 

There were men listening to that announcement that 
were accustomed to leap to their feet at such hints of 
treason to strike out blindly and murderously until a 
killing had been accomplished—but this time their very 
nerve centers had been paralyzed at the magnitude of the 
plot and the narrowness of their escape. Before every 
eye rose visions of families, of babies in bed, of old folks 
near the poor house, of children in school striving to 
better their condition under happier auspices than had 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


321 


been the lot of their parents—all dependent that bitter 
winter on Craigie’s—then came a sick sensation that for 
a moment smothered every sense of rage and resentment. 
Skip made one more desperate effort to retrieve his money. 

“That proves nothin’ ” he muttered through stiffening 
lips, while the crowd listened only to make the surer of 
him eventually, “I’m on’y here t’do th’ best I c’n f’r yer 
men—” 

“I guess you’ve said enough” in deadly accents from 
Day, up to this moment his stiffest partisan.. 

“There’s nothin’ c’n be done about a strike ’till a c’mittee 
waits on th’super again an’ lays th’charges afore him.” 
Which was greeted with a rumble of agreement. The 
dirty green in Skip’s face deepened again—it was the last 
move in the world for him as the money was to be paid 
on the express condition that Coggeshall was kept out 
of it. To face him with the accusing letter from the Old 
Man’s niece—he saw his money being kissed a fond fare¬ 
well ere yet he had greeted it. 

“I guess not” he cried warmly, “we’re here t’settle this 
thing amongst us—this kind o* soft sawder don’t go here 
—Crosby’s on’y sore cause his girl thrun him down” 
wickedly. Val leaned across the table again. 

“What’s that?” he said in deadly calm; Skip may have 
been mean and treacherous, but he was no physical coward; 
he in turn leaned across the board until their faces were 
within a few inches of each other. 

“An’ yer priest fixed it up t’get yer out o’ town—ast 
him, he ain’t dared say a word—” but he got no farther 
for Val, with a lightning like move, swept the table from be¬ 
tween them and before the astounded Skip could grasp 
the meaning of the move he was upon him in a great, fierce 
rush that bore him to the floor, where he rained blow after 
blow on the beastly features. But that was not to the 
liking of the crowd who desired the affair settled other¬ 
wise; quickly rushing in they threw them apart for a 
minute; as if prearranged, the recognized rules of the 
community were brought into play and without a word 
from or to Father O’Connor, still remaining in their 
midst, preparations were made for the proper disposition 
of a fight. 


322 


FROM THE MELTING POT TNTO THE MOLD 


While the principals were stripping to the waist the 
mat was brought from the ante room and spread in the 
middle of the floor, four partisans, two for each com¬ 
batant, took up their places in what passed for corners 
and calmly awaited the coming of the two principals. 
When they presented themselves, stripped to the trousers 
supported by their suspenders, the onlookers had an op¬ 
portunity of sizing up the best two men that locality had 
ever produced. 

Skip was stockier, uglier, not so agile but possessed 
of a terrible strength and a thumping blow that carried 
consternation in its wake—in addition he had a splendid 
training in the art of manly defense due to his habit of 
loafing at intervals about the sporting quarters of such 
good old timers as Dominic McCafferty, Professor Mike 
Donavan, the ageing Joe Goss and others of like celebrity. 
While Val had tutored under less able masters, he had 
nicked up a good deal on his own account, in addition 
to being as quick as a cat, lithe as a panther and possessed 
of enormous lungs that only needed to suck in a great 
torrent of air to enable him to recuperate under any 
shock. In addition to the hatred engendered by Skip’s 
traitorous conduct was the long felt jealousy and secret 
dislike natural in rivals. 

Contrary to usual custom there was no handshaking 
as they advanced from their corners, simply a cool, nasty 
eyeing of each and a short, jerky motion intended to con¬ 
fuse and distract the attention of the other. There was 
a swift and nervous sparring, a shooting out of arms and 
the fierce impact of bare knuckles on body and face— 
they slipped to a clinch in which Val had the better of 
the argument for before Skip could wriggle free he had 
succeeded in rendering his jolts futile while he had beaten 
a tatoo on the ribs of the grunting Blake that brought 
roars of applause from the Crosby adherents; it was 
anything but sweet music to Blake to hear the almost 
unanimous cries for his antagonist, for it meant a dis¬ 
graceful future in the neighborhood. 

Getting out of the clinch he played cautiously on Val 
at long range in which he was the master, slipping blow 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


323 


after blow over that grazing Val’s cheeks and jaws rocked 
his head again and again and almost rendered him fran¬ 
tic with pain. In addition he received a smash on 
the nose that brought the blood—giving the few friends 
of Skip opportunity to win a bet thereby. But while 
Skip aimed high Val kept his best blows for the body 
and putting every ounce of weight behind his thrust and 
swings he soon had Blake's sides red and raw—Skip 
made a savage swing, Val ducked and as the other reeled 
past him under the force of his effort, he placed a nasty 
crack directly over his heart that smacking from a bony 
fist was heard all over the room. Skip winced and slowed 
up. But Val was breathing easily and as alert and agile 
as ever, despite the trickles of blood and nearly closed 
right optic—he noted with joy (as did the bystanders) 
the welt that was beginning to show on Blake’s left side 
indicating as plainly as the gasping breaths the agony it 
was causing him—but he was game and swung the harder 
that he suffered the more. In a few minutes, during 
which he sought to spar for wind, he visibly weakened, 
a red gleam came to his eye that denoted merely the 
rage of helplessness. The biggest bully in the town was 
getting his desserts and the crowd nearly went crazy. 

Now he began to think more of his bruised mid sec¬ 
tion than anything else, he was growing wilder and an¬ 
grier at each moment—Val made a sudden feint at the 
tender spot, Skip dropped his guard mechanically to pro¬ 
tect the aching spot—like a flash the brawny fist shot up 
and landed flush on the jaw of the traitor; he reeled 
blindly and would have fallen but for a quick move of 
his seconds who, perceiving that the blow was a finisher, 
sprang forward and eased him to the mat where he lay 
panting and wobbling feebly in a desperate effort to re¬ 
gain his trembling legs. 

A wild yell of joy went up from everybody—Skip the 
feared, the tyrant, the double dealer, had met his master 
and before a large per cent of the sport loving inhabi¬ 
tants of Fern Park got a licking which was described 
about many a winter fire and in many a wake for years. 
For it was the survival of the code duello of the workers— 


324 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


their method of settling once and for all every question, 
political, religious and metaphysical. 

The meeting had broken up with all thoughts of a 
strike annihilated—every one realized that as they crept 
quietly and in an awed manner from the hall direct to 
their homes where many of them said a fervent Rosary 
of thanks for their deliverance from the wiles of the 
super and his tool. With Miss Colquhoun enlisted on 
their side, as the letter proved, there was no fear of re¬ 
tributive aftermath, for her unexpected and bewildering 
entry into the game signalized the weakening of the op¬ 
position of the Old Man. It was a night long to be re¬ 
membered. 

Larry from a secure nook had watched the progress of 
affairs including the fistic encounter and now as the crowd 
drifted away leaving only Val and an aide or two striving 
with the aid of vinegar, raw beef and cold cloths to era¬ 
dicate the very obvious traces of the landing of Skip’s 
muscular fins, he crept to the side of the lingering Father 
O’Connor striving through the mist in his brain to formu¬ 
late some announcement leading up to the news. The 
priest finally turned from his conference with Lance, in 
which they endeavoured to piece the fragments of the 
plot as they occured to them, in the hope of arriving at 
a conclusion looking to the guilt of Coggeshall, to smile 
at Larry. This later caught the drift of the conference 
as he gripped the priest’s hand. 

“Don’t be too hard on him, Father” he pleaded at which 
Fleetley scowled and was about to make a hasty rejoinder 
when the priest intercepted the angry word. 

“There is no inclination to be Larry” he said gently; 
“we believe this night will bring its own punishment.” 
Larry rubbed his hands in strange embarrassment. 

“He’s punished enough now Father, God knows he is—” 
Lance made an angry gesture accompanied by a far from 
eulogistic remark about the super, but the priest checked 
him with a propitiating smile. 

“Let us believe so, there will be a new deal in Fern 
Park—” at which Larry could no longer contain him¬ 
self. 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


325 


“You’ll hold th’car’rds, Father” he said almost hysteric¬ 
ally, at which his auditors favored him with a wonder¬ 
ing look; Val’s, by reason of a near closed eye, only 
about half wondering. “D’ye remember a lad, that used 
t’be at Father Haskins, be th’name o’ Galvin?” Father 
O’Connor nodded. 

“Yes” he smiled, “and several others. He was a waif; 
when anyone would listen to him he rambled on about 
being a descendant of an aristocratic family of Boston.” 
Larry was white, breathing hard. 

“What becem ’f him, Father?” He shook his head 
sadly. 

“Dead.” Larry turned with a groan and sinking 
to a chair gave way to choking grief. “Why?” 

“Fie tolt th’truth” from between the fingers pressed 
against his face. “He was Mr. Coggeshall’s brother.” 
That announcement came with stunning effect; for a time 
the old hall was still, as they looked at each other in 
wondering incredulity. 

“The neglect and abuse to which he was subjected 
brought on consumption; he was found dead in an alley- 
way.” Poor Larry! It was a long time before they could 
get an approximation of his story, but when he did finally 
manage to give them frame work of the tale he had un¬ 
earthed their amazement was too deep for words. 
Coggeshall’s brother, had died an outcast! So this was 
the fruit of the hapless marriage of the poor little Irish 
girl! What did Coggeshall know of this? Surely he 
never could have dreamed such a thing. At the suggestion 
of Fleetley, backed by the eager Larry, they decided to 
call upon him at the hotel and endeavor, with the story 
of Larry as an introduction, to lead up to the Mill busi¬ 
ness, in hopes that a favorable solution of the Skip mystery 
might be made. On the part of Val and Lance, revenge 
was uppermost; but Father O’Connor, sick at heart of 
the whole thing, was only hoping and praying that things 
would so shape themselves that he could turn the mess 
over to the pastor and fly the scene. 


326 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Alone again, Coggeshall locked himself in from in¬ 
truders—put himself away from the world—came into the 
room where for a moment he stood by the open window 
listening to the last strains of B’teest s concert— “In the 
Sweet Bye and Bye’’—rendered no doubt out of respect¬ 
ful deference to the many non-Catholic listeners to his 
striking music. He knew the import of the hymn well, 
but in college the refrain had been used to carry on a 
ribald and obscene verse—he could still hear it roared out 
in college style—and he shuddered as he thought for 
the first time what it might mean. 

“In the Sweet Bye and Bye”—the insistence of some 
strong soul wearied with the moil and clamor and filth 
of this life that it would one day meet on a “beautiful 
shore”—where all would be light and peace and glory. 
He sickened as he closed the window, as the last tones 
quivered and trembled in the still night air and going 
to a chair dropped heavily in to it—to think. Hitherto 
he had never given a moment’s consideration to what might 
come in the next life, but now be began to think—to ponder 
if anything he had essayed were worth while. 

His father and mother had preceded him; were they in 
nothingness or were they living as the preachers said 
—forever? He could imagine his father shut off from 
eternity, but his mother—at recollections of Larry’s des¬ 
cription of her he could imagine nothing but a crown of 
glory surrounding her. And now the rub. Could the 
word “eternity” bespeak the same for each—the sin laden 
father and the much enduring, chaste mother? His reason 
and judgement repelled the thought. Were his father 
excused the requitement of justice then how could his 
mother expect the reward of mercy? It would be mon¬ 
strous to think that both were to endure eternity in the 
same state of grace—if one were to be rewarded the other 
must be punished; it was a tangle that he swiftly undid 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


327 


—he rejected all and chose to believe that nothingness 
existed beyond the grave. After that the process of 
reasoning grew firmer and led to more decisive grounds. 

Now he took up the papers Larry had left; he found 
them a chronological arrangement of the life of Philip 
Coggeshall—otherwise Galvin. He read from the hastily 
prepared paper of Father Haskins. 

The very week his mother died and the baby had been 
taken by the woman called Margaret, she had married a 
soldier about to leave for the front, named Joseph O’Con¬ 
nor. Then she had the child baptized after formally 
adopting him. There was a copy of the adoption papers 
obtained from the Surrogate. There was a copy of the 
baptismal record with officiating priest, Father Deroule, 
the sponsors, Edward Tobin and Mary Cassidy. The dis¬ 
covery of these had been brought about by the head of 
the House of The Angel Guardian remembering the ar¬ 
rival of the lad Galvin and being so strongly impressed 
as to start the search after Larry had about given up 
hope. 

Armed with these documents—so the paper ran—he 
sought the belligerent and uncommunicative Galvin again 
in Charlestown, but this time, awed by the words and 
manner of the priest, he thawed considerably. He ack¬ 
nowledged marrying Margaret O’Connor, thought to be 
a spinster by many, and corroborated the records as she 
had told him. They kept the child awhile, but when she 
could no longer use him to extract money from the broken 
hearted grandmother in Ashburton Square, he began to 
object—particularly as she favored him with no heirs 
of his own. The last straw against the retention of the 
hapless orphan was laid on when she applied for a pen¬ 
sion—as the sporty young representative of the under¬ 
taker’s had told Larry—and found that by reason of 
her marriage it could not be granted. 

Galvin reluctantly admitted that he forced her to turn 
the child over to the home then; spurred on by the re¬ 
proaches and urging of the priest he managed to recall 
the address of the Godmother, Mary Cassidy, which he 
was quite sure was Braintree. Thither the search led 



328 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

and was quickly rewarded; she not only remembered the 
circumstances but was ready to go into court and swear 
that she acted in the capacity of wet nurse for the foster 
mother. This brought the testimony down to the arrival 
in the Home and here Father Haskins himself supplied 
the rest. The sordid tale of a scion of the house of Cogges- 
hall, his brother—he shuddered—living as an outcast— 
at last found dead in a dirty street. Oh pride, once 
more rebuked! Poor little Irish mother! 

He sighed as he laid the papers aside; of course there 
was much to it suceptible of proof in a court, but as far 
as he was concerned he was ready, after going over the 
ground himself, to believe the affidavits and affirmations 
lie had read. To Winthrop Coggeshall it was admissible 
that the lad known as Galvin was his brother—and he suf¬ 
fered torments as he thought of meeting the priest who, 
no doubt (judged by his own standards) would gloat over 
him. 

He had been told that he was born into a world to get 
all he might out of it—there was none other tangible—it 
was a vast store house, a mighty treasure locker, the por¬ 
tals of which ever yawned for him—the well born, the 
proud, the influential. To live for this had been his 
conjuration, to live by it, to consider nothing else worthy 
of attention was all that was necessary; the eternal future 
was pictured in a way to leave the budding mind to form 
its own conception of it. If it suited him to believe a 
part of Tradition, to accept a part of Scriptures—well 
and good; if it pleased him to reject all and to form for 
himself a world beyond the stars—that too was left to 
his option. That he had lived up to the latter goes with¬ 
out saying. Out of his philosophy—or lack of it—he 
had developed into a heterodox personality that not only 
refused to consider such a thing as Sin, but actually to 
deny an occasion for sin—in fact to carve out of himself 
a figure that he might worship in secret or public—his ego. 

For the first time he knew that life was precisely what 
he had made it. That reflection came as a severe shock. 
He acknowledged no interior suggestion, no conscientious 
dictating. There was absolutely nothing outside himself 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


329 


and even the pagan logician’s definition of Infinity found 
no place in the curriculum of the college dominating the 
soul of Winthrop Coggeshall. A few short hours be¬ 
fore this looked so very plausible, so easy of elucida¬ 
tion, so simple in the confirmation that any thing else 
—religion, morality, social alignment—were so pitifully 
extraneous as to excite in his placid bosom a mingling 
of pity and contempt. But now—and he crushed his 
flaming cheeks in a rending grasp—the explosion. The 
bauble with which he had played, the evanescent shape that 
looked so beautiful and satisfying, radiating prismatic 
gleams in the sun of his egoism was a moist spot at his 
feet—a something with as much body and coherency as 
the rubber ball after the needle point has pricked it. 
Why, there^ wasn’t even a decent dream to recall the man¬ 
sion in which only a few moments ago he dwelt! 

For the first time Winthrop Coggeshall, the dilettante in 
morals, had it borne in on him that this is a world of 
units—with no two alike. That others should mold their 
thought to his every wish had seemed so very trite that 
when he was confronted by the refusal of the one object 
on which he had lavished all the so called affection of 
a selfish nature he felt himself growing mad. Not that 
Grace’s rejection hurt him in a material sense—there 
were women living who could take her place—licitly or 
otherwise—but the thought that it was within the power 
of any woman’s conception of life to successfully resist 
the glamour of his individuality, was simply appalling. 
And the only too easily gathered inference that another 
actually had—with no show of making human pride sub¬ 
servient as he had—overcome the maidenly reserve suf¬ 
ficiently to gain a hold within her affections, pulled the 
very earth from beneath his feet. 

Rousing suddenly he took writing implements from his 
desk and wrote, wrote swiftly and thoroughly with no 
erasures and little time lost in pondering the subject 
matter. As he wrote there came a sound out in the hall¬ 
way as of somebody passing and running to the door, 
he looked out to intercept two maids returning from the 
excursion denominated “a night out.” They halted in 


330 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


embarrassed silence, the snickers and giggles dying on 
their lips at sight of a personage never too lenient with 
their crude and guache manners. But the voice that at¬ 
tracted them tonight was one of unwonted suavity. 

“Becky—Keziah” he said, “can you spare a moment 
for me before retiring?” Oh, yes, there was lots of time 
before the rules of the hotel required them to be in bed. 
They followed him in abashed silence into the room 
where he again seated himself before his desk. 

“What is it, sir?” one made bold enough to enquire 
finally; he pushed a sheet of fool’s cap across the table 
to them after asking them to witness his signing of his 
name at the bottom of it. 

“Please notice that I am signing this” he said in a 
hollow, weary voice, “and then both of you may sign 
here” indicating a space beside his own signature where 
he wished theirs. With many smirks and murmurs of 
being so nervous and unable to write with a pen nohow 
and wouldn’t a pencil do sir? and Becky stop yer shovin’ 
and Keziah, how can I write with you in th’light? they 
finally managed (with many apologies for the “hen 
tracks”) to follow his instructions. He glanced at all 
the signatures approvingly. 

“Thank you” he said simply and then thrusting his 
hand into his trousers pocket pulled out a hand full of 
money out of which he selected two gold five dollar pieces. 
Giving these to the astounded girls and again thanking 
them in a lack luster manner for their services he pre¬ 
ceded them to the door and locked it carefully after they 
had passed through—whispering in an awed manner not 
only at the wondrous gift from the hermit bachelor, but 
the puzzling ceremony at which they had assisted. 

Coggeshall had hardly regained his seat and started 
to write when there came a timid rap on the door; he 
slipped quietly across the room to reconnoitre and in¬ 
haling a whiff of a well known distillery product through 
the key hole had no hesitancy in opening to greet— Ma- 
lachi. It was hardly a greeting, to speak in precise terms, 
for the instant he was sure of his visitor—or attempted 
visitor—come, no doubt, to inform him of the result of 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


331 


the meeting, than he turned on his heel and left him to 
sneak in like a dog returning to his kennel after an in¬ 
voluntary encounter with a skunk. 

“Val’s back 7 ’ he coughed from behind his dirty paw; 
the chilly host returned a slight inclination of the head. 

‘"So Larry told me” he said wearily and abstractedly— 
indeed Malachi was lost in amazement at this unlooked 
for air of toleration and unconcern in one who had put 
up w ith h is, Malachi’s presence, much as one puts up 
with the odor of limburger. 

“An’ ” he sighed, “th’strhike’s off—” at which Win- 
throp from the depths of his chair regarded him in mild 
curiosity; Malachi pinched his hook nose with his finger 
and thumb and observed apropos of nothing “That it’s 
growin’ colder I’m thinkin’ sor” as nothing else ran ath¬ 
wart his sodden brain at that moment; the crushed air 
and meekness of the erstwhile haughty super were, to 
say the least, not provocative of camaradie. 

“What happened?” his white lips framed, but the sound 
was hardly indicative of curiosity. 

“Th’ big slob Blake—bad cess t’th’blunderer” as a 
notice to the super that he shared his dissatisfaction with 
the failing of his tool— “had everything well in hand 
I’m tellin’ ye—whin in walks Father O’Connor” at men¬ 
tion of which name a still ghastlier hue crept over the 
wan features, while Malachi would have taken his oath 
he saw the super visibly shudder. He waited patiently 
and deferentially an explanation of that, but none being 
forthcoming he was forced to continue his story with as 
responsive an audience apparently as a film actor has 
before the camera. “He kem in an’ Skip has him hipped 
on th’ money proposition an’ he daren’t explain—along 
o’ God on’y knows what—” oh, yes, God knew, you craw¬ 
ling and miserable scoundrel. 

“Very well” Coggeshall rejoined feebly, “finish — and 
go!” testily. Malachi coughed harshly into his palm, 
casting an eye of furtive longing on the bottle on the 
table—but the bottle stood right there and vouchsafed 
him a cold return for his loving gaze. 

“So thin—t’make a long story short—in kem Val an’ 


332 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

Fleetley—” at which he fancied he detected a move and 
smothered groan from the figure crouched in the cushions, 
but receiving no positive signs of interest went on. “Ac- 
course” disappointedly, “th’fat was in th’fire thin f’r Val 
give him th’lie befure th’house—an’ they was all wid 
Val ’ which word came out as if he had chewed a mouth¬ 
ful of sandy spinach— “an’ on top of it gev Skip th’ 
dangedest batin’ a man ever got” all of which de¬ 
livered in a breath told the story of the night’s debacle 
to the cowering Coggeshall. But he refused to come to 
life and the little wretch stood in baffled chagrined silence 
a long time; suddenly the super aroused; gazing wildly 
about him as if coming out of a night mare, his dull eyes 
fell on the attendant gnome grinning, hyena like, at him. 

He made an abrupt and unmistakable gesture toward the 
door, followed up by his figure beckoning to the duped one 
to seek the exit; Malachi obeyed in silence—the instant 
he passed the threshold it was heavily slammed against him 
and he was at liberty to retrace his steps the prey of 
frightful emotions and dark presentiment for, with the 
super beaten, the men behind Val again—life was to be 
anything but a bed of roses for the betrayed spy. 

Winthrop now gathered in an orderly heap the papers, 
those the girls had witnessed along with Larry’s docu¬ 
ments; satisfied apparently that it was sufficiently con¬ 
spicuous to attract the attention of any visitor to the room, 
he went in to the other room. Going to his escritoire he 
took out of one of the drawers a venerable and ancient 
derringer—a bit of arms possessed by his father in the 
days his occupation necessitated a sure and speedy pro¬ 
tector and which he had taken to war with him. It had 
been sent back with the rest of his effects and turned over 
to Winthrop by his grandmother as an heir loom; in 
the boyish Fourth of July celebrations it had occupied a 
big place and after he had matured he still kept a supply 
of cartridges of its calibre with which he at times amused 
himself in pistol practice. Ancient and fossilized it might 
appear in the light of the fresher armament, but it was 
capable of hurling a huge and annihilating missile—as he 
only too well knew. He handled it tenderly and fondly 




FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


333 


•vhile he examined the barrel and trigger as he loaded it. 

Still fondling it, he returned to the outer room and 
walked to the window out of which he looked into the 
black night. The little town was sinking to its Puritanical 
rest, early and demurely, as befitted a New England vil¬ 
lage. Lights blinked out here and there, rendering the 
outlines more uncertain minute by minute—precisely as his 
Lights were extinguishing and permitting his soul to sink 
into the Darkness of despair. He could even detect the 
lights that indicated the Rookery; with a shudder his 
thoughts ran back to the dramatic scenes enacted there 
that night. 

What a fool he had been! How near sighted, how 
pusillanimous, how heedless of a dread reckoning! To 
another man the impotency of that moment would have 
suggested a resort to the Counsel of a Higher Order. The 
nearest was the involuntary outburst of a crushed heart. 

“Oh, God” he moaned, the swan song of the infidel, 
“God!” he cried and the repetition frightened even him¬ 
self. The superhuman soul seemed making one desperate 
effort to cleave the crust of nasty and pagan convention 
and culture, straining to break into the sun outside the 
blatant philosophy of an ill spent youth. “Oh, God!” 
—as if forced from his very soul. 

All that he could do he had done—he had made his 
good religionless fight—he had reached out of himself for 
help and found nothing—too late now to moon over squan¬ 
dered opportunities, to mourn over neglected chances— 
people of a lower mentality than his, of cruder under¬ 
standing, less proficient in worldly knowledge, of a less 
presumptions habit—had won; it would be vulgar, it would 
be an abasement, for him, Winthrop Coggeshall to im¬ 
plore that they relax the application of the very laws of 
which he himself had made them cognizant; he would 
not have done it for them—he could not expect them to 
do it for him. He drew the shades slowly and regretfully, 
shutting out the blissful world, the unregarding world, 
the world that had prospered ere his advent and would 
as serenely pursue its orbit after his exit. Good night 
world, good night—and good bye! 


334 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


Once again he took his stand before the mirror—but it 
Avas a hopeless, tormented face that reflected back now. 
A few hours before it was a sunny face, a visage radiant 
with hope and undaunted purpose, a world challenging 
face—now he looked into the eyes of a man who had 
lost—a loss proclaimed by the shadowed sockets, the 
haggard lines, the sagging jaw. Scarce a vestige of that 
old arrogant air remained that had won him friends as 
well as made him enemies, that had endeared him to 
men and Avomen alike. It might still be called a hand¬ 
some face, handsome because of a dignified expression of 
penitence overspreading it. And as he stood, he tried 
to convince himself, even as the condemned murderer, 
that it was the shadow in the glass and not the maker of 
it that was doomed—but in vain. For the first and last 
time he stood face to face with his soul—and it did not 
lie to him —it did not lie to him. 

There came a knock at the door, Larry’s he knew; he 
almost held his breath while the devoted fellow called 
softly and beat timidly but insistently for leave to enter 
—the man within refused to accede. Then the sounds 
ceased and he heard the retreating footsteps. A feAv mo¬ 
ments more and there were augumented sounds and more 
footsteps and the knocking on the door became clamorous. 

“F’r th’love o’God la’me in Mr. Coggeshall” pleaded 
the well known tones frantically, “’Twas all settled at 
th’Rookery, tis’ understud,—spake t’us, do, spake t’us” he 
cried pitifully and Coggeshall, wincing and shivering at 
his station before the glass, knew he was crying. But he 
strained his ears to detect another voice; it sounded. 

“My dear sir” said the priest, “I have just learned the 
strange story—I, Father O’Connor—its sounds plausible, 
let us go over it together, won’t you?” with warm tones 
of affection. It made the listener quiver in rare joy for, 
whereas in the past that voice announced someone he 
hated vaguely, it was now the articulation of the man who 
carried his family’s secret, Avho would blazon his shame 
to the world. He refused to answer, standing grimly at 
his post as if rendered mute. Then there came sounds of 
pressure on the door, the panels creaked and gave slightly; 
they intended to force a way in. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


335 


Guided by the reflection in the glass he lifted the pistol 
to his head by a hand suddenly rendered steady, placed 
the ugly muzzle behind his ear and at an upward slant 
that was sure to traverse a fatal section. Again came the 
confused cries of fear and doubt from without, a stronger 
pressure on the door, the pitiful Irish lamentation of the 
faithful servant, there must be a crowd outside—the priest 
called frantically—bodies were propelled against the door 
—it began to yield—the sounds grew louder and hoarser 
and more confused—the boards sagged inward a trifle— 
snapped back—crashed. He gripped the pistol a trifle 
more firmly, studied the pose in the mirror, pressed the 
muzzle against the flesh behind the ear until even his 
deadened senses were forced to confess pain—listened for 
one more sound that he had suddenly grown to love—it 
was the last voice reaching him on earth for, as the door 
splintered in under the impact of stout bodies behind— 
he pressed the trigger. 



336 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Larry was in the van of the group pushed over the 
threshold in the rush against the door lifted from its 
hinges—to find the room murky with the smoke from 
the heavy powdered missile, but underneath which could 
be detected the stark form of Coggeshell, full length on 
the floor, barely quivering in the spasmodic convulsion 
that ceased abruptly, the deadly weapon just outside the 
fingers that had clutched it, smoke lazily emanating from 
the mouth and mingling with the fumes of the apartment. 

For an instant all stood as if transfixed in horror—then 
Larry, with much the same cry that had welled from his 
lips a quarter of a century before at the grisly sight on 
the battle field of Virginia, sprang forward and undeterred 
by the gory flood pouring from the head, lifted it in his 
arms and pressed it wildly to his bosom while the room 
rang with his lamentations. The priest, totally paralyzed 
at this horrible denouement, livid, gasping, could only 
stand in frozen horror, gazing down upon the pathetic 
tableau. Not even a prayer came to his relief as he looked 
on the grisly sight. 

There was a shade of peace on the gray features such 
as they had not worn in days, the miraculous peace and 
calm that comes to the shell of the flown soul, whether 
death be violent or peaceful, in the midst of sin or serene 
in the saving of the consolations of religion. They 
were still beautiful—beautiful as a sculptured bit of marble 
dug from a Greek ruin or the fancied mask of death; 
there was absolutely nothing revealed in that inscrutable 
brow to bear witness to the life of religious anarchy 
fostered behind it. But the lid was down forever on 
the eyes that had looked up at the grief stricken Larry 
only in love and veneration. 

Fleetley it was stooped finally to examine with forced 
calmness the nature of the fatal wound in the head Larry 
still caressed with feminine tenderness—with a sober shake 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


337 


of the head he actually forced the poor fellow to relin¬ 
quish his hold on the stiffening clay, to lay it tenderly on 
the floor and cover it with the bed spread, some one brought 
at his bidding. Everyone in the hotel had been aroused 
by this and some one summoned the nearest surgeon who 
happened to be the medical examiner for that district. 
He merely felt the rigid form to nod his head in con¬ 
firmation of Lance’s decision. 

“He is gone” he said quietly and then with business like 
promptness ordered the room cleared of all but neces¬ 
sary witnesses that he might take the first steps toward an 
inquiry. 

When they had succeeded finally in calming the stricken 
Coleman he told his story, point after point it being af¬ 
firmed or elaborated by Father O’Connor, who indeed was 
in but little better shape to go on with the ceremony than 
the shrinking Larry. At the revelation of the connection 
between the priest and the aristocratic Coggeshall the 
Yankee official started violently, bit his lip in unbelief 
and (were it not for the solemnity of the occasion) might 
have given way to scornful laughter. It was beyond the 
realms of the Arabian Nights. At any rate it would furnish 
a clever tale for the amusement and delectation of his 
equally bigoted friends. Nevertheless, his dignified in¬ 
credulity received a rude jolt when, in looking over the 
papers ostentatiously displayed by the suicide, he found 
along with the will copies of ancient documents that bore 
every appearance of being testaments worthy of being 
submitted to any court of justice in the land. His bland 
self conceit checked itself abruptly. 

Noting the signers of the will and the date of its execu¬ 
tion he had the maids summoned—and they obeyed in 
greatest reluctance after the genial farewell from the awful 
Thing lying in the very room where, a few moments be¬ 
fore, it had greeted them in all its manly strength and 
delightful personality—nor would they come until assured 
that the forbidding tenement of a soul had been covered 
from their sight. With many sobs of fear and super¬ 
stitious whimperings they faltered out their story as to 
the manner in which they had been pressed into service 


338 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


and his obvious condition at the time. It was midnight 
when all had been attended to and the papers gathered by 
the dumbfounded official for filing with the Surrogate. 

The news spread like wild fire even at that unseemly 
hour; coming directly after the terrifically dramatic meet¬ 
ing in the Rookery where the priest had been almost 
miraculously preserved from the ignominy of the foul 
plot evolved by the tools of the dead man and where Val 
had revealed to the workers their narrow escape from a 
winter of bitter suffering and certain humiliation later; 
it furnished awed food for gossip in every home, great 
and small, in Fern Park for the rest of the night. . The 
Mill men received it in grim, sullen calm—it was a judg¬ 
ment from God—it was a sign of their predestination, a 
token that they were to be preserved despite the grinding 
tactics of the upper classes and it nerved them for a still 
bitterer defense against the hated rulers. 

As for those sublime individuals who had toadied to 
Coggeshall simply because of his distinguished lineage 
and surface attractions—or his matrimonial capabilities 
—they confessed a mixture of emotions characteristic of 
people who habitually steel themselves to a placid recep¬ 
tion of any sort of news, whether it be composed of 
choice internal scandal or an external injustice. To many 
he was still an eligible parti as regards marriage and his 
loss was of course deeply deplored in that set that looks 
upon a successful marriage sale as a dernier cri. To the 
more exclusive circles his untoward demise was a stunner 
as, by reason of its plebeian encompassing, it rather tend¬ 
ed to link them (via the vulgar public press, that was 
only fit to chronicle their eating and swelling and dress¬ 
ing and—ahem—sinning) with common clay. Finally, 
to the employers who had been looking to him for the 
smashing of the rebellious thinking toilers it came as an 
irreparable loss as none now felt able to take up the 
guage dropped from his nerveless hand. Little wonder 
then that Winthrop Coggeshall, even as in his inception, 
was in his termination, the absorbing topic of conversation 
in bustling Fern Park. 

Lance feeling that a premature announcement of the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


339 


catastrophe to the Old Man would be apt to be attended 
with disastrous results took it upon himself to seek again 
the mansion on the hill; all had retired long before he 
got there and the man servant who grudgingly talked to 
him through the heavy door—to the accompaniment of 
ominous growls from the brace of bull dogs doing guard 
within—absolutely refused to arouse anyone, even threaten¬ 
ing Lance with letting the dogs out and generously giving 
him five minutes to get clear of the grounds before he 
did so. As they were still acrimonously debating the pro 
and con of a stone hurled through an upstairs window by 
Lance the voice of Grace came from behind the faithful— 
if timid guardian—and she told him to draw the bolts. 

Without awaiting her murmured apologies for her rather 
distracting dishabille, he plunged into his story, swiftly 
giving the main events of the terrible night; he knew of 
course that she would be strongly shocked but he never 
anticipated the precise effect on her of the announcement 
of her lover’s death. She threw up her hands with a 
piteous cry that re-echoed through the lower rooms, then 
with her face buried in her gown sleeve gave way to an out¬ 
burst of grief that not only visibly distressed the tale 
bearer but made him long most insistently for permission 
and courage to essay the pleasing role of comforter. He 
had of course no way of telling that her shocked outcry 
was as much the result of remorse for her unwitting part 
in the untimely death as the fact itself; endowed as she 
was with all a woman’s lovely mobility of affection, she 
chided herself with her words and actions in that latter 
interview precisely as if they had been the cause of his 
rash act. Yet deep within her soul she knew he had left 
her too proud to reveal to the world a situation that she 
inwardlv vowed would never be revealed either; it would 
be wicked betrayal of his memory—although there was 
no particular reason for venerating it—to have it known 
to the world that he, the inordinately proud one had 
grovelled at her feet in vain. 

She warmly commended the thoughtfulness in giving 
warning in this manner to her uncle—rather sensing in 
her acute manner its bearing the ear marks of something 


340 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


beyond mere concern for the sensibilities of a man who 
never in his bigoted life had gone out of his path to sound 
the depths of the delicacy of “his people.” Pretty well 
satisfied with her hearty expressions on the matter, despite 
her evident agitation, and well fortified with a kindly pres¬ 
sure of the hand, Lance departed to look for Val, pleased 
on the whole with the turn of some of the events. Despite 
ocular proofs of the intentions of the super, Fleetley had 
had for some time doubts as to the precise status of the 
relation existing between him and Grace—analyzing her 
emotions on learning the horrible news, he failed to con¬ 
vince himself that she seemed to contemplate adorning 
herself with widow’s weeds. So he comforted himself in 
the midst of the general gloom with bright prospects. 

Only a few of the toilers refused to heed the silence of 
the raucous whistle in the morning and walked as far as 
the office; there they were hardly surprised to see the 
notice of the closing of the Mill indefinitely. Nobody 
was in sight but a clerk attending to the pressing cor¬ 
respondence, a watchman for day and night and the en¬ 
gine men. The old brick pile, stark and repellant as ever, 
stood a mute witness to the mutability of nature and a 
warning of too great hopes and aims for the future. That 
a new super was in sight was hardly possible under the 
circumstances and what his service was to bring forth af¬ 
forded a stage of vague uneasiness not at all calculated 
to disarm the suspicions of these poor human pawns. 

The meeting of the Board just prior to the funeral was 
as funereal in its qualities as the ceremonies held over 
the body; the Old Man, never totally bad at bottom, was 
still overwrought and unable to bring himself to any 
striking view of the situation—all the fire had burned out 
of his vigorous system—but he rejected impatiently, aye 
angrily, the suggestion of his pious colleagues that a man 
be hired to take Coggeshall’s place who should be ordered 
to deal with the workers as he would with a gang of mu¬ 
tineers on board ship. 

“Na, na” the Old Man declared with many emphatic 
shakes of the head, grayer in the last few days, “na, na 
—let the clay cover the quarrel as well as the body. I 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


341 


shall never again consent so long as I have a voice in 
Mill affairs to have a man here who shall attempt to bat¬ 
ter down these people.” At which more than one mem¬ 
ber of the sanctimonious Board mentally decided that it 
was full time the Old Man was deprived of his say so in 
running of things; but none dared bell the cat—none gave 
voice to the treason, for the old Scotchman was as tru¬ 
culent as a lion and still possessed claws and teeth. He 
made no secret of his grief, he made no attempt to deny 
that the death of the young man, whom he had come to 
look upon with almost paternal affection, who had crept 
very close to him in the many consultations held with 
Grace present, shocked him sorely. Coming as it did as 
a climax to the machinations (of which he knew absolute¬ 
ly nothing) of Coggeshall and the traitorous Skip Blake, 
he believed with the humbler ones that it revealed the 
hand of God—the deep religious instincts and training 
were stirred to the very bottom; its aftermath was to 
promote in Hugh Craigie a closer affection for the people 
toiling for him than the ancient feeling that he conferred 
a favor on them by permitting them to squeeze out a 
niggardly existence in order that he might be unneces¬ 
sarily opulent. After all was said and done, Coggeshall 
—even if he had lived—had not died, in vain. 

Skip Blake, beaten mentally and physically, made a 
futile effort to rally sufficient of his henchmen to brazen 
the affair out, but on learning from perfectly reliable 
and credible sources that a barrel of tar had been pur¬ 
chased at the coal yards and that a feather bed had been 
donated by a rabid partisan of justice, putting two and two 
together—with his naked carcass connecting the negative 
and positive poles—sought the hill just beyond the 
town where the freight trains slowed up in running along, 
selected a dark corner in a box car, and ensconcing him¬ 
self snugly therein shook the dust of Fern Park from his 
feet forever. Thenceforward, honors were easy between 
him and Malachi as to choice of the best hated man the 
town had ever produced. Foiled in their benevolent in¬ 
tentions toward Mr. Blake the disappointed crowd looked 
about for a substitute, but even those who had the day 



342 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


before been kow towing to him were extraordinarily busy 
preparing alibis, denying complicity in any plot—to which 
denials the absence of money from the penurious Skip 
lent plenty of color as none of the stuff he had boasted 
of ever tickled their itching palms. 

Luckily for Father O’Connor the old pastor arrived the 
day before the funeral and at once relieved him of all 
responsibility in parish affairs. He had borne up re¬ 
markably well, the terrific strain to which he had been 
subjected, being tempered by a craving and curiosity to 
conjecture the outcome of the court’s investigation of the 
will. The testament the girls had witnessed read as follows: 

“I, Winthrop Coggeshall, being of sound mind and 
body, do make this my last will and testament, hereby 
revoking all former wills by me made. To my cousin I 
give and bequeath all my property, real and personal, 
of which I may be seized at the hour of my death ex¬ 
cept as below mentioned. I hereby give and devise ten 
thousand dollars to my faithful servant and friend, Larry 
Coleman.” 

Before the papers were filed in the court the funeral 
took place. To the priest and Larry it was a culmination 
of their grief for, accustomed as they were all their lives 
to the gentle and loving ministrations of mother Church, 
not only at death, but at the beginning and during the 
prolongation of life, this cold, hollow, showy pagan pre¬ 
tense at a reverent laying away of the inanimate clay was 
little less than heart rending. It was conducted by a 
society of which he had been a member, with a ritual that, 
bearing heavily on the past material conduct of the help¬ 
less dust it was consigning to dust, glossing the patent 
frailties and faults, skimmed lightly over the future pros¬ 
pects as connoted in revealed religion, and consigned it to 
God with a degree of arrogance intimating that He was 
to dispose of the soul as they directed. Not a single plea 
to a Just God to have mercy on the sin blackened soul. 
Not a parting note of doubt as to his eventual eternal 
felicity. Ashes to ashes —fruit of a hasty marriage! 

Again the magnificent mausoleum in Mount Auburn, 
resting place of the wealthy, the socially prominent, the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


343 


politically honored, last opened to receive the mortal re¬ 
mains of the great Mrs. Coggeshall his grandmother, yawn¬ 
ed for the carcass of the last Coggeshall to be 
interred there. Nor here were there prayers, nor refer¬ 
ence to the life beyond, nor promises of eternal rest with 
his ancestors—and when the massive, carven doors clanged 
to with a ghostly din two mourners turned away far more 
dazed by this chill consignment to the earthly abode of a 
soul than by his terrible taking away. Father O’Connor 
now gazed long and solemnly at the graceful, slender shaft 
of Italian marble pointing upward, an accusing finger in¬ 
dicating the points where son and mother alike were to 
render an account of their stewardship. To what extent, 
he mused sadly, was the unhappy Irish maid to be held 
responsible for the sad end of her offspring? 

Of course, the acid test was applied to the story, but 
it all proved as Larry had ferreted it out. In beating 
back the horde of claimants disputing with the cousin 
the right to the Coggeshall millions, the sordid tale was 
told to the satisfaction of court and curious public alike. 

The poor lad had learned from his foster parents of 
his parentage; but when he went to assert his rights the 
unnatural grandmother had repulsed him, just as she had 
the blackmailing Galvin. Not only that, she had, with 
the aid of some corrupt officers, so scared the child that 
he felt that his life and freedom were at stake if he 
bothered any more. Then came the irregular life; mer¬ 
cifully terminated at last in a fevered dream in the slime 
and ice of an alley. He had been in boys’ refuges—he 
had practiced his religion while an inmate. 

The day following the funeral Val was sent for by the 
Board and on gaining the office was admitted to a pri¬ 
vate and impressive interview; much in the nature of a 
coroner’s inquest, he thought to himself. The various 
members of the august body sat—while Val sought to 
keep himself from congealing in their Arctic zone—around 
the Old Man, who solemnly and impressively (much as 
if he were the officiating minister at a funeral) informed 
the Mill hand that a change had been decided upon by 
the Board. Which body, as if to call heaven to witness 


344 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

its innocence of this heresy, raised pious eyes upward and 
figuratively washed its hands both of the Old Man and 
Val, who sat in awkward diffidence during the tedious, 
prolific but kindly meant preamble to his talk. He finally 
drifted around to the point where he was enabled to in¬ 
timate to the astounded young fellow that they were again 
willing to try an experiment—nothing less than raising a 
man from the Mill and setting him up as superintendent. 

At which juncture proceedings were interrupted long 
enough to permit one member to tip toe—as at a wake— 
around the walls to the door where, by earnest gestures 
and impressive whispers, he was enabled to intimate to 
the agonized Malachi without (itching to intrude with 
some purposeless errand) that his accompanying atmos¬ 
phere was only a pollution to their pure surroundings. 
Which hint he at length deciding to accept he persisted 
in making a nuisance of himself to a nervous member of 
the Board by suddenly running by the window as if to 
a fire and then popping back to saunter leisurely by with 
one wicked eye—like a mule’s about to administer a kick 
—cocked accusingly into the room, as if assuring him¬ 
self by vision of what he could not compass by ear. 

Aided in his oration by this digression the Old Man 
finally made it clear that they contemplated appointing 
him—Valentine Crosby—to the vacant superintendency. 
First he turned very white—intensifying the spot under 
his optic where Skip had effected a landing—then flushed 
a painful red. 

“But—but” he managed to stammer while Bunton and 
Prugh and Carter still persisted in reminding the ceiling 
above the white of their eyes that it was not their doing 
and that Val, the Mill and the Old Man would yet have 
something laid against their immortal souls, “sir — yer 
tried that with Mannix—an’— ; an’ ”— 

“Ah” sighed the Old Man, “we didn’t deal fairly by 
Mannix—” which was resented in dumb show by the rest 
of the Board—still addressed to the patient ceiling— “we 
took him out of the mire and expected him to come with 
white linen. Naturally he was with the men, we bore hard 
on him because of it, misunderstandings arose—” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


345 


“Yet” Val broke in very sternly, “that is precisely the 
attitude I shall assume, for a time at least”—at which the 
Board informed the ceiling with horrified eyes and shrug¬ 
ging shoulders that that was precisely what they knew 
all the time. 

“Quite right” the Old Man answered simply, “quite 
right, Crosby—we are in better humor now ” with a sig¬ 
nificant meekness, “to listen to the other fellow’s side.” 
Yal banged his fist on the chair arm violently—which was 
some violence as Mr. Blake would make an affidavit—and 
made such a clatter that the eyes of the Board fell upon 
him accusingly now. 

“An’ by heaven” he cried, “I’ll see that this Board gets 
a square deal—yer haven’t been gettin’ it Mr. Craigie, 
yer’ve been gettin’ th’tarred end o’ th’stick fr’m men that’s 
been workin’ t’feather their own nests!” He looked about 
him at the Board which now began to nod a glad assent 
to one statement, really this was a new point of view— 
quite well worth considering, by jove! “Here’s th’thing 
in a nut shell” ran on Val soaring outside himself in his 
eagerness, “yer’ve had a lot o’swabs that kep’th’men under 
’em an’th’Board over ’em in a kettle o’hot water—they 
suited no one but diemselves—ain’t that right?” The 
Board nodded. It was, and the Old Man voiced his assent. 

“Just so” he nodded. 

“Now” Val went on forgetting past awe of this august 
body and thinking only of the big problem, “if a man 
don’t do his work I’ll see what’s th’ matter, I ain’t goin’ 
t’let him bellyache around an’ give half service, he’s got 
t’tell me what’s wrong an’ if we can’t settle th’business— 
we part coinp’ny that’s all. Here was Mannix—he was 
still with us, he never got a show with you men an’ he 
never dared tell a man’s faults ’cause he imagined a feller 
worker couldn’t be wrong—see? That’s all in yer eye, 
a feller worker’s good jus’ so long as he is good—see? 
When he won’t do what he ought t’do—sack ’im!” He 
paused and mopped his sweaty brow. 

“I see you have the right idea” Craigie assented quietly, 
very well pleased. 

“Now take poor Coggeshall” and the relationship in the 


346 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

recent plotting to the priest almost made him attach the 
usual prayer for his soul to the name— “he thought no 
workin’ man could be right, he had it in his noodle that he 
knew it all—that meant when we had a grievance he played 
with us, he never intended t’give us a thing—’till we beat 
’im in th’strike” which reviving tender memories in the 
breasts of the baffled Board sent a ripple of sighs around 
the room. “Everything we got has helped th’Mill hasn't it 
now—honest?” and the unfortunates, having made the 
Old Man spokesman, turned the reply over to him. 

“I am very sure nothing unreasonable has been de¬ 
manded so far” which the complacent Board O.K.’d with 
wry smiles and dubious nods. “What more do they want?” 
<»s Bunton and Prugh and Carter held their breath. 

“Nothin’ right away” positively, “Skip Blake’s belch 
was all a stall, there wasn’t a shadow of a grievance in 
all he said. There ain’t goin’ t’be no strike an’there’s 
goin’t’be perfect satisfaction in th’Craigie Mill if / know 
beans.” Which was a harmonious settlement of the 
vexed question and the meeting—into which the maltreated 
Malachi was now admitted—resolved itself into routine 
instructions for the new superintendent. Which gradually 
insinuating itself into the consciousness of the astounded 
renegade, engendered a riot of sentiment within his breast 
beside which Mike Allen’s hatred of England simmered 
into a Quaker meeting. It had been insulting enough 
when Mannix had been put in position to say “Malachi 
do this” and “Malachi do that” but when it came to eleva¬ 
ting his arch enemy Val, the man he had conspired to 
ruin (yes and his innocent sweetheart also) to the same 
vantage point—he felt as if he never again would make 
a good Confession by reason of an imperfect contrition 
for his sins. 

But Val gave no thought to his humbled friend, the 
desire to see Bridget burned within him that he might 
acquaint her with his good fortune and insist on an im¬ 
mediate consummation of their delayed troth; what had 
seemed at first ticklish business turned into blissful cer¬ 
tainty, for among the letters left by the suicide was one 
addressed to him which proved to be an exposure of the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


347 


means taken to keep him and Bridget apart as well as a 
touching plea for forgiveness from both. That cleared 
; n a flash the sinister meaning of the epistle sent at 
CoggeshaU’s sugestion to Val and which had resulted in 
an answer that turned her thoughts from him forever— 
apparently. He had answered it without really compre¬ 
hending the import, as it bristled with falsehood, patent 
to him after he had done the injury; there was nothing 
now he told himself he would not do to atone that he 
might win back his best beloved. 

It was something in which he must take the initiative, 
he felt that it was the part of the man at all times to 
strive for a reconciliation, as she had most to lose in the 
wreck and therefore must be the more prudent and modest. 
He was not going to let his shame jeopardize all his fu¬ 
ture hopes of happiness. And then, with a shrewdness far 
above his class, he determined to make all advances pre¬ 
cisely as if he were still a middle class toiler, one offering 
nothing better in exchange than the station of life to 
which she had always been accustomed. He would place 
no handicap over his full and complete forgiveness by a 
doubt as to the reason why she had chosen to accept him. 


348 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

The greetings between the officials of the cobbler shop 
and Val were of the old, tumultuously warm hearted man¬ 
ner; to them (no more than to Bridget) did he at once re¬ 
veal the recent change in the Mill affairs, mostly because 
it would subject him so much the sooner to the rough 
jokes and labored intimations as to the likelihood of his 
permanent residence again in Fern Park in the face of 
some newer attachment “down east”—hints of which were 
industriously (and fallaciously) being spread by his fool¬ 
ish mother in the certainty “That Val wasn’t t’be caught 
be any o’tli 'stlireels o’ that community.” The little cobbler 
smiled a welcome with his eyes as he poured himself a 
fistfull of his occupational fodder and prepared to rattle 
away noisily on a tap, Mike solemnly related an impos¬ 
sible yarn of what had occured at one time or another— 
in the old country—under precisely similar circumstances, 
but it was plain that the old, lively interchange suffered 
and limped with the absence of the genial Larry. When 
they referred to him it was as to one long since dead, there 
was a suggestion of past tense in every mention of his 
name that seemed to lay him out of their lives forever. 
Then while Val vainly sought to invent a plausible excuse 
in order to make an escape to seek Bridget who should 
crawl in but the ill favored Mr. Clark. 

“ Musha , luk what th’cat brought in” grunted Mike ami¬ 
ably, as a sickly smirk overspread the toad like features 
of the disturber who, after a reasonable length of time 
intended to give Val an opportunity to extend the olive 
branch, took matters in his own hands and despite the 
black look on the face of the other, sidled up to him with 
whining murmurs of congratulation on his good fortune: 
for the space of at least two minutes the outraged Crosby 
studied the mud turtle like flapper extended toward him 
with ineffable disdain, deepening anger and disgust slowly 
manifesting itself and indicating to the delighted audience 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


349 


the proximity of a fuss—then (unable longer to contain 
the vials of his just wrath) he reached out with a lightning 
like motion, seized the collar of the astonished little crook 
and taking up the slack in the seat of his unmentionables 
with the other hand propelled him across the floor with 
a motion denominated as “walking Spanish.” Arrived at 
the door, hastily flung open by a quick witted and only 
too ready onlooker, he waltzed the frantically protesting 
creature to the edge of the porch surrounded by a dirty 
snow bank. Here, fully revealed in the shaft of light from 
the shop to the cheering occupants thereof, he swung his 
struggling foe back and forth two or three times to obtain 
the proper propulsion—then suddenly letting fly, heaved 
him over into the Arctic foliage, his aerial flight being 
considerably accelerated by a well directed kick on a 
prominent portion of his anatomy. Then he turned back 
into the shop with a look of vast relief on his flushed 
features, leaving the hapless Mr. Clark floundering in the 
depths of his icy plunge—where we too will, with many 
thoughts of his baseness, leave him forever. 

“God forgive me f’r pickin’ on a cripple” he said in 
rather a mortified way in answer to the hilarious con¬ 
gratulations, “but if I stopped t’argue with him on all 
th’misery he has done me an’ mine I’d wind up at th’end 
of a rope.” His blazing features and wickedly gleaming 
eyes bore testimony to that. 

“Careful, careful” soothed the delighted Mike with a 
shrewd grin, “for —‘Omuns amans aniens ’— which bein’ 
freely thranslated is, as ye might say, ‘A lad wid his eye 
on th’gur-rls ain’t supposed t’have good sinse’ ” and in 
the midst of the laughter stirred by that Val made his 
escape. 

He found Bridget at home—perhaps (who knows?) 
cherishing the hope that he would call before returning to 
Sebatus—at any rate in a mood denoting a willingness to 
hear what he had to say concerning the recent tragic 
events, if nothing more. But her heart had resumed its 
normal beat since the reception of his letter and his voice 
and presence caused her but little trepidation now. It 
was rather disturbing for him to note that even if she 


350 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


expected him she had been at no pains to clear the material 
situation for him as in the dear past, for the sitting room, 
aglow with the heat from the hard coal fire and the im¬ 
mense kerosene lamp, was fairly cluttered with numerous 
Whites in varied stages of youth and conditions of attire 
ranging from the prudent elders fully dressed to the infant 
ready for bed and practically innocent of the garb pres¬ 
cribed by society when entertaining strangers. 

After a good deal of sly maneuvering reminiscient of 
days of yore—to which Bridget pretended to be demurely 
oblivious—as she sat over her sewing—he managed, by 
bribing one or two, coaxing some more and finally drag¬ 
ging the last from beneath the old hair cloth sofa, to clear 
the room for action, the one draw back to complete se¬ 
clusion being the partly open door between the sitting 
room and the kitchen where White senior smoked and 
nodded over his evening paper; then satisfied with con¬ 
ditions as they were, Val sat regarding her in mute elo¬ 
quence trying to evolve a propitious opening to the de¬ 
bate. Bridget, with no comment on the sudden vacating 
of the noisy room by the children, went on with her sewing 
very calmly—a trifle too calmly in fact—for its very air 
of innocence and unconcern rather lent a tinge of color 
to his wild hopes that she was as embarrassed as he; so 
he put in the silent time profitably in drinking in the 
ravishing prospect as she bent within the halo of the 
shaded lamp under its gaudy dome, of eyes and smooth 
lying tresses, of dimpling cheeks, of pearly teeth revealed 
when she nipped the end of the thread, of white hands 
deftly lifting and shifting the billowing material over 
which she worked, of a tiny foot revealed as it crossed 
the other to give support to her odds and ends of cloth- 
of a seductive waist his arm longed to encircle as former¬ 
ly—and the dreams of the nights she would be sitting by 
their own fire and the cries would come from their own 

offspring. Ah, God would be good to him and grant all 
that, surely! 

“1 guess I’ll stay in Fern Park this time, Bridgie” he 
announced in a voice rather diffident, after what 
seemed an interminable silence; she looked up across the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


351 


table at him rather incuriously, bit off the thread and 
smoothed out a plait on her knee very gently. 

“■Your mother will be glad of that won't she?” He 
gulped and seemed to choke a trifle. 

“Sure—an’ maybe someone else” with what he consid¬ 
ered remarkable finesse. She smiled out at him dazzlingly 
from the rim of light. 

“Why to be sure” but took siding, before running along 
with his clue to enquire just ivho might be glad—so he 
was forced to take it up again and push matters. 

“I thought perhaps you’d be—even if we didn’t exactly 
hit it up when we parted—” 

“Oh, I’ve forgotten all that” nonchalantly, but he was 
delighted to see a tell tale color begin to rise over the 
niching about her neck and travel swiftly over her chin 
and up across her face. She sought to hide it by bend¬ 
ing over her work, but it was too palpable—even although 
it conveyed no hint as to its precise origin. 

“But I can’t Bridgie” he went on in a burst of self 
abasement, “it ain’t all right f’r me—I made a fool of 
myself—” she shook her head gravely and he saw for 
certain that the hand that held the needle trembled. 

“Under the circumstances I don’t think you need to ac¬ 
cuse yourself that way—I’m—I’m—afraid” her voice 
trembled a bit— “I was the occasion of the misunder¬ 
standing—” 

“No, no” he broke in impetuously, “I oughtn’t t’have 
paid any attention—” 

“But if I hadn’t turned you away the way I did” as if 
punishing herself in the avowal, casting aside all at¬ 
tempts at indifference, “there never would have been the 
original parting would there?” He shook his head sadly 
and at thoughts of the posthumous apology in his pocket 
there flared into his keen eyes the light that lit them the 
instant he hurled the table aside and flung himself on 
Skip Blake. 

“No—we might ha’been married by this” sadly; “but” 
brightening suddenly, “That ain’t neither here nor there 
—th’mill will never grind with th’ water that’s past—” he 
crossed the room to stand close beside her, “we’ll let 



352 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


sleepin’ clogs lie—” only to find to his horror and dismay 
that she was regarding him with looks actually unfriendly. 

“I’m grateful to you for overlooking my foolish yearn¬ 
ing for a different method of living than what nature in¬ 
tended me—for refusing your honest love—but I guess 
it’s all over between us” very, very firmly and decidedly. 
He stood transfixed, the dumb look of despair in his eyes 
capable of softening a heart much harder than hers ap¬ 
parently. 

“How over between us Bridgie?” he managed to say 
through white, trembling lips after a time. 

“Any thought of marrying.” 

“But why?” querously, “Why? What is there I c’n 
do that’ll straighten me out in yer estimation Bridgie? 
What’s wrong with me? I came back t’save th’men an’ 
th’Mill didn’t I?” Yes, her soul commanded, she must 
acknowledge the justice of that, but as she came to her 
feet, and he looked down upon her to note how very 
frail and helpless she really was, he cursed himself in¬ 
wardly for his own weakness in being led away from her 
side, in believing all that had been prompted. 

“Up to a certain point” she said in dignified tones, 
“there was no apology I would not have accepted from 
you simply because I knew I was in the wrong first, but 
the instant you showed you could believe anything any¬ 
one else told of me, the instant you answered that letter—” 
he winced and his hand instinctively reached for his 
inner pocket, but restrained itself— “you put marriage 
out of the bounds of possibility.” He reached out timidly 
and touched her arm, passing his massive hand over it 
with the caressing touch of a mother, trying in a dazed 
way to form a shadow of defense ere showing the letter 
he carried. He had known Bridget White since short 
dress days, hut he had never seen this Bridget before— 
she was gazing at him with the imperturbability of a 
trained actress, looking at him as if they were already 
rent asunder forever. Still he fondled her arm as if 
seeking to drag from it some degree of pity refused by 
its owner. 

“I used t’think yer loved me too well f’r this” he said 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


353 


in a choking whisper; she looked up at him brightly and 
laid a hand on his arm in the old, familiar manner. 

‘"Used to? Why, I still love you, Val!” His face under¬ 
went the changes of a sunset sky. 

“No!” in positive rapture at his sudden relief, “no— 
yer still love me an’ yer’ll marry me—” but she checked 
him with a gesture and shake of the head. 

“No—I shan’t marry you Val—I can love you with 
what is left of the old love—but it isn’t the sort of love 
that makes homes and families.” He turned ashen, sick 
at heart at this misunderstood contradiction—it was en¬ 
tirely new to his process of reasoning, for, in his un¬ 
tutored mind, a phantom had been conjured that love and 
marriage were inseparable. He couldn’t fathom the depths 
of her style of argument. 

“I guess I don’t ketch on” with a plaintive intonation 
and a bleak attempt at smiling, “yer say yer love me but 
yer say yer can’t marry me—what’s th’joke?” She stood 
back a trifle so that the full light of the lamp blazoned 
every fair feature. 

“There is no joke Val, I love you—but can’t ask you 
to marry a woman for whom you have so little respect—” 

“But I do respect yer Bridgie—as th’good God is my 
judge I wrote in anger, I was sorry th’minit it was done, 
I—oh can’t you see I couldn’t have meant it—” but she 
shook her head stubbornly. 

“Don’t you see I can’t bring myself to marry a man 
who could under any circumstances think so of me?” 
piteously. “You knew what I was—but the instant you 
took someone’s word for the opposite—” she wavered, 
then went on— “I never should have been doubted” and 
at recollection of that doubting word she gave signs of 
breaking, the set lines relaxed about her mouth, the tears 
glistened in her sad eyes a moment—then to Val’s horror 
welled forth and trickled down her flushed cheek. 

“Don’t, don’t cry, Bridgie” in complete forgetfulness of 
his own misery, “I ain’t worth it, I know I ain’t” in ab¬ 
ject abasement, but the tender words seemed only to in¬ 
crease her grief, for the tears fell faster and in a moment 
she was in a tempest of hysteria. Poor Val!” “Aint there 
nothin’ more t’be said?” he asked, half crying himself. 


354 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“No” she sobbed. “We can be friends—but I will never 
trust my hopes for the future to a man after that—some 
day there’d be trouble and then he’d say—oh dear, oh 
dear” and at thoughts of what he would say suddenly 
conjured she broke down completely and giving way to 
her feelings sank with piteous moans into the chair. For 
Bridget White’s world had suddenly rolled from beneath 
her feet also. 

That determined him; he took the letter out of his 
pocket and tendered it; she looked up in wonder and 
after drying her eyes began to read while he walked 
across the room as if to take his leave. She looked up 
from it with wide open eyes of horror. 

“He—he—sent you that? My God—I thought him my 
friend—and Miss Colquhoun warned me—” every trace 
of tears obliterated in this fresh denouncement. “And if 
he hadn’t died—” and almost fainted. 

“We’d never ha’known’ he said grimly. There was a 
long impressive silence after that while she ran over many 
things once murky, but now clear and comprehensible. 

“So I guess” he said with a determination his heart 
was far from backing up, “I’d better get back t’morrer.” 
Still she could not answer. “Since yer feel that way 
about it” rather gropingly and incoherently, turning to go 
again, “I wish I’d answered y’r letter myself instead o’ 
waitin’ f’r Miss Colquhoun—maybe it’d ha’ made me solid- 
er with yer.” She started visibly at that name. Miss 
Colquhoun! The miserable girl had not thought of her 
in connection with her love affair, but now came back 
the letter she had written to Val, and which had resulted 
so gloriously for all. How was she to justify herself to 
her? And with this letter from Coggeshall to show in 
proof of Val’s justification! 

“What did she say, Val?” in sudden and heartening 
irrelevancy that made him pause hopefully. He resumed 
gladly. 

“She tol’ me that in a life an’ death case' such as this 
there was no woman good enough t’c ’m between me an’ 
my duties—” with which the little beauty crouched mis¬ 
erably in her chair was forced to agree—“that I owed it 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


355 


t’th’ men an" Father O’Connor t’c’m back an’ square 
things—an’ I admit” rather shamefacedly, “I c’m back 
when she said that f’r—” with a prodigious sigh, “Grace 
Colquhoun’s as straight’s a die!” A sentiment that even 
her slight twinge of jealousy did not prevent her from 
sharing. \ 

“I’m glad you obeyed, Val—was it very hard—to—come 
back?” wistfully. He turned white and seized the back of 
a chair to prevent staggering. 

“When I thought o’ facin’th’crooks that’d put th’job 
over on us—when I realized what her hints about Cogges- 
hall meant—” he was speaking through set teeth and his 
every muscle quivered in rage— “I was afraid t’c’m” in 
an impressive whisper, “I was afeard I’d— kill him!” 
That thought was borne out by the tense features, the skin 
drawn tightly over the protruding jaw, the clinched fists 
working convulsively as if about to close on the throat 
of his tormentors, anything more being necessary to cor¬ 
roborate his words the gleam in his wicked eye of Irish hate 
and venom furnishing it. Yes, it had cost him a hitter 
struggle to come back to the woman who had wronged him 
and the man who lured her to compassing it. 

Then she looked at him in a way that rather encouraged 
a reopening of the original line of argument. 

“No one living could have done better, Val” she said 
softly; he was back at her side in a few, vigorous strides. 

“If I could crowd all that under my heel Bridgie” he 
said hotly, passionately, “couldn’t I take up my love f’r 
you again? If I was man enough t’c’m back f’r a stranger 
t’right th’wrongs o’my friends, ain’t I man enough t’stand 
f’r you —t’give you th’best of it Bridgie? If I wasn’t 
man enough t’love these men, t’love Father O’Connor, 
could I have dragged myself in th’gutter afore you t’prove 
myself a man? An’ who do I love better than you —an’ 
yer say that yer love me—why Bridgie—” then the wave 
that had carried him on its stormy crest broke and flung 
him helpless before her—he hid his face in his hands, 
revealing himself to her as no woman likes a man to re¬ 
veal himself—as being beyond human strength. 

“I guess I’ve been wrong all along, Val” she said faint- 



356 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


ly; coming to him she drew his hands from before his 
face that she might look up into his eyes, “I thought there 
could be nothing so grand as the kind of life he told 
about, free from the control of any man—but I know 
better” nestling close to him. “Besides,” musingly, “I 
can’t go back to the Mill.” 

“Why?” innocently as his arm stole about the waist 
in the old way, and persevered in his bravado by drawing 
her closer and handier to himself—at which she made no 
demur. 

“I couldn’t like a new super” which seemed to cause 
him sudden mirth for his eyes twinkled and the mouth that 
was placed against hers wrinkled with laughter; here was 
where he’d shine with his news! “I simply couldn’t hear 
to enter that office again—he’d haunt it for me.” He 
laughed openly now, the former boyish laugh that had 
attracted so many times. 

“Couldn’t learn t’love a new super, hey?” he gurgled 
in excellent spirits apparently, “Couldn’t possibly, hey?” 
She shook her head decidedly. 

“No.” 

“Not even if he was a pretty good sort of a slob—say” 
with renewed twinkles, “some such a feller as—me?” 
She glanced up at him quickly—then the proud eyes of 
love gathered the import. 

“Val!” half delighted, half dubious; he nodded his 
head a good many times, but was too busy otherwise with 
his lips to respond at once. 

“Yes” finally, “they offered it t’me t’day” and sitting 
down he drew her to his lap from which vantage point 
she heard in a daze the events in the office. It was true 
indeed, she was to he the wife of the superintendent of 
the Craigie Mill! But better still—she was to be the wife 
of a man who was to superintend her heart and mind. 

If yer ve got that sewin done that worried yer last 
summer” he said with a pragmatic air, “we’d better be 
called before Lent—what say?” and she must have said the 
right thing if the tableau White senior witnessed—on his 
round of putting out the cat and the milk can, locking 
doors and windows and seeing if each tiny White was 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


357 


covered in bed, after preparing the kindling for the morn¬ 
ing fire, was any indication. 

Surprises were piling up thick and fast for the operatives 
in the Mill who had not yet attained the point where 
anything could be looked upon with an approximation of 
equanimity—thus it was that the news of the elevation of 
the most popular man the Mill had ever known came 
with a shock and celerity that set the entire community 
by the ears. To the casual observer it meant simply that 
a new boss had been appointed, but to the old men of 
the Mill, those who had entered in youth and read un¬ 
emotionally over its portals the old, old legend, “Leave 
Hope Behind” it was nothing short of revolutionary; it 
was the downfall of a Bourbon regime that looked upon 
its hands as chattels, as pawns moved by the magnetism 
of the stock market, as a something invisibly connected 
with the increment of fortunes. Chauvinism was annihi¬ 
lated in the Craigie Mill and henceforth human flesh and 
superhuman souls were to be reckoned with on a different 
plane than that conveying the vast machinery. 

To none was this more keenly apparent than to the 
suddenly taciturn and aloof Fleetley—a condition that had 
descended upon him in a flash. It was as if he rejoiced 
not so much at his own prospects in the Mill as in the 
great prospects of others doomed to a life time of it. In 
a way he severed with a stroke the tiny thread that bound 
him to the many unlettered comrades and friends out of 
his thoughtful class, imperceptibly drawing himself far¬ 
ther and farther from their pleasures and councils. He 
exhibited a vague uneasiness, a feeling that comes over a 
man when he executes a plan after a lengthly deliberation 
and regrets his action the instant it is taken. He grew stead¬ 
ily gloomy and morose. 

He began to lay off more frequently than formerly, 
there were days when he locked himself in his room deny¬ 
ing himself even to the broken hearted Larry wandering 
about like a feeble ghost awaiting the hour to be recalled 
to the tomb, handling the sudden increase of correspondence 
that made the position of postmaster a precarious one by 
reason of the abnormal curiosity engendered by the masses 


358 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

of foreign stamped literature received and which (through 
no fault of his consuming curiosity) went unperused. 

He made many quiet visits to the City whence he re¬ 
turned a trifle more reserved and preoccupied each time, 
but never approaching that condition the curious ones 
hoped for and diagnosed locally as “havin’ taken a drop 
too much.” No, there was no pleasure in his jaunts now. 
With the termination of Bridget’s clerkship preparatory to 
marriage he lost the underground connecting link to com¬ 
munication with Miss Colquhoun—a disaster that galling 
as it was lacked the refreshing knowledge that she missed 
the contact as much. 

To that gentle, brave spirit succeeded days tormented 
not only by visions of newly awakened love, but har- 
rassed by daily and nightly sight ol the distressed and 
baffled visage of her unfortunate lover, Coggeshall. She 
had no regrets for having refused his tender of love— 
could not indeed in the light of the revelations of his du¬ 
plicity and vindictiveness—yet she dreaded the day she 
might be called on to reveal part of the mystery of his 
life as yet undreamed of by anyone, least of all perhaps 
Lance. 

Totally unconscious of the possible repayment of what 
he owed Grace for her interest in the men Val made bold 
to wait on the Old Man—now sufficiently recovered from 
the shock to resume his place at the head of the Board— 
with a proposition to make Fleetley his assistant, a posi¬ 
tion much sought after by every foreman in the Mill. 
This official was made necessary by the reluctant action 
of the Board—spurred on by the repentant Craigie—con¬ 
senting to a reduction in hours and a gradual elimination 
of the working methods of women and children in the 
Mill. Val himself broached it first to Fleetley, but he, 
with a half laughing disclaimer of skill, was strangely 
reluctant to accept a position that many others were eat¬ 
ing their hearts out to obtain. 

His manner was so inscrutable, his answers so very 
vague and noncommital, that Val in desperation was 
forced to acknowledge to the Old Man the utter hopeless¬ 
ness of gaining his consent and recommending—although 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


359 


not any too heartily (for he still remembered his defection 
in a critical time)—George Day. It demonstrated the 
depth of the young superintendent’s judgment in de¬ 
ferring somewhat to the prejudices of the workers in 
tendering this place to a man who stood close to him in 
their estimation. But the Old Man, piqued thoroughly 
by his unaccountable disdain of mighty preferment (which 
any office in his beloved Mill was in his eyes) determined 
on a private interview with the mysterious one at his 
own home—which decision met with hearty support from 
his niece and strangely enough caused the supercilious 
Mr. Fleetley to lay aside his air of lassitude in Mill af¬ 
fairs and obey with flattering and commendable celerity. 


360 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Yet at the last moment Lance caught himself secretly 
heaping curses upon his head for his inexplicable alacrity 
in obeying the Old Man’s summons—he was still in the 
mire of some cruel doubt, the impulse to present himself 
in the presence of Grace was finding a sad reaction. 
Despite which the individual that presented himself at the 
mansion that night was of a type calculated to set a pulse 
heating a trifle faster in the veins of one less interested 
in him than the beautiful niece of the Mill owner—for 
Fleetley had chosen to renounce all the old pretense at 
negligence and quasi Bohemianism that had characterized 
his attitude since entering in to the affairs of the Mill 
months before. Whereas the garb of the ordinary Mill 
hand when assumed for style simple created a ghastly 
effect in its ill fitting lines and painful freshness, in¬ 
tensified by envious friends who made him an object of 
misery, the neatly tailored outfit of Lance sat on him 
with a jauntiness and unconcern that some how suggested 
former custom. Indeed, he was now more in detail than 
when wearing the soft navy blue flannel shirts, belted 
coarse trousers and “slouch” hat—while the cigar he 
threw away just before entering the grounds was carried 
with easier negligence than the old clay pipe so long 
affected. 

His face crimsoned swiftly when, after being shown into 
the reception room by the former pert servant girl (now 
demurely retiring) he saw Grace enter to greet him; she 
came forward with no attempt at hiding her eagerness, her 
hand outstretched in friendly welcome while a light that 
seemed to radiate into his very heart gleamed in her 
wondrous eyes. Nor did she stint him in the time he 
elected to possess himself of that plump, tender member, 
they exchanging murmurs of pleasure at the meeting, so 
long deferred. 

“But where have you been hiding yourself?” she chided 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


361 


as she sank into a chair and indicated one near her for 
him; he smiled the enigmatic smile that had become almost 
a custom in the last few days. 

“With few exceptions in practically the old haunts—” 

“But I’m no clairvoyant and ghosts are invisible to 
me” she railed, “of course I’ve looked for you—” then 
blushed slightly as if he might construe that into an ad¬ 
mission that she had sought him for other than business 
reasons. “For you see” she ran on hastily, “it was a 
long time before I had the unfortunate affair in the hotel 
straightened out—there were details I wished to glean 
from you—I rather thought—” hesitatingly. He shook 
his head. 

“It was all much a mystery to me as anyone else. 
And at this time I believe we may well felicitate our¬ 
selves on the part we played in Val’s opportune arrival.” 
She shuddered, then after a swift, involuntary glance 
across the room at the spot on which Coggeshail had stood 
when he made his last address, hid her eyes as if to shut 
out a possible recurrence of the scene. 

“Poor, unfortunate, little Bridget” she sighed finally, 
“How near she came to wrecking lives and ambitions.” 

“Although she did nobly in sustaining one of the latter” 
in a significant tone that she seemed to ignore—not caring 
particularly to interpret it at that time. 

“And now they are to be married.” 

“A snug harbor after the rough trip across the sea of 
love” he laughed. “Were she a thousand times better— 
and I have always held that any woman is too good for 
any man—she could scarce be too good for him—I have 
come to look upon him as the most unselfish, stoutest 
hearted young fellow I have ever encountered” with a 
warmth in the words that enchanged them a thousand fold 
drawing him close to her notions of a hero also, had he 
but known it. 

“A pretty good confirmation of the match making abili¬ 
ties of Heaven” she smiled thoughtfully. At which there 
ensued an awkward silence—he evidently on the point of 
broaching the occasion of his invitation and she as ginger¬ 
ly evading the tentative invitation to the Old Man to join 
the group. But it had to come finally. 


362 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“By the way” he said after giving her all the chance 
possible to say something else, “I am supposed to have 
an interview here with Mr. Craigie am I not?” She 
nodded with a faint effort at surprise that she had over¬ 
looked it. 

“He will be down presently—he is not as spry as he 
was and takes more time in his preparations to entertain 
company.” There was another chance to say what quivered 
on his lips; but he let it evade him. 

“Am I right in assuming that he desires me to accept 
the situation proferred by Crosby?” 

“Yes—Mr. Crosby has insisted on it and if uncle can’t 
win you over there remains no alternative but Day, a man 
it seems whom no one exactly dislikes yet all furtively 
distrust.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“In a position of responsibility, yes. Yet crude and 
boorish as he is at times he is precisely of that nineteenth 
century type that must eventually be granted a seat at the 
council table of kings—provided he stops hitting the 
bottle before he hits the ground. But I am ready to con¬ 
fess to you that under no circumstances—no matter how 
glittering the prospects—can I accept the situation—des¬ 
pite the elegant nature of the proffer” with a meaning 
thrill in his voice that warned her that her part in it had 
not been successfully concealed from this baffling per¬ 
sonage. She sought to read his eyes at that, making no 
effort to conceal either her surprise or displeasure. 

“I—I’m—sorry” she said simply and then to rid her of 
further useless and embarrassing conjecture he made a 
blunt announcement. 

“Simply and solely because I am going to leave Fern 
Park—for a time at least—” at which she gave a slight 
start—then resolutely checked further indications of too 
prominent interest—“as a matter of fact I must quit 
America—to tell it all” in a final burst as if glad to get 
rid of the disagreeable secret. Even her great self con¬ 
trol and poise were not quite proof against that. 

“You surprise me” she said steadily as possible as she 
clinched her hands spasmodically—then with an assump¬ 
tion of unconcern arose. “My uncle will be here in a 



FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


363 


moment I think—do you care if I go to see if he needs 
my care before coming down?” moving slowly across the 
floor toward the entrance; with one swift stride he was 
before her, blocking her passage. 

“Just a moment Miss Colquhoun” he implored and 
again she saw a light in his eye such as had shone for a 
brief moment in the eye of the other that fatal night. 
But where she had seen the first with pity she now gazed 
upon this with mingled emotions of pride and distress. 

“I’m afraid I can’t talk to you now, Mr. Fleetley” she said 
quietly but very, very firmly, “I am quite sure my uncle is 
waiting for me,” and would have brushed past him but 
that he deliberately held his ground. 

“It is only for a moment” he insisted and she could 
see his face growing whiter while the words came as if 
he were recuperating after a long run, “I feel that you 
owe me—that it is due to both of us to comprehend—” 

“You are evidently presuming on cross purpose in¬ 
cidents” she said decidedly, but nothing of tone or man¬ 
ner was to impede his progress now. 

“Pardon me for the unfortunate way of putting it” he 
ran on hurriedly and with evident striving for coherency, 
“What I sought to convey is that in the light of our happy 
friendship—” 

“Composed of the tangled incidents to which I referred” 
she broke in on him; “begun and fostered as you well 
know in the interests of both my uncle and the unfor¬ 
tunate people standing in need of a friend—I saw in you 
one to carry out my ideas perfectly —” (mercilessly) — 
“and intelligently!” She saw the sudden crestfallen air. 

“You are quite sure—you are ready to affirm—that there 
was nothing else?” 

She looked squarely at him with an eye that was meant 
to finish the debate, but what she read evidently finished 
her instead as, despite the desperate effort she made to 
maintain her hauteur and unconcern, a slight flush came to 
her cheeks and she was forced to bite her lips to control 
their trembling. He seemed imperceptibly to insinuate 
his presence a trifle closer. 

“I—I—think not” but not quite so positively; he was 


364 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

now so close that in order to gain the exit she would be 
forced to push past him and the words he uttered came in 
gentle whispers. At this range she was able to compre¬ 
hend the assured bearing and carriage of the man of the 
world, one of the class to which she had been accustomed 
since the day her uncle took her from her dead parent’s 
house; it was as if a covering rolled from him and re¬ 
vealed not the clumsy, presuming, unlettered male but 
a polished man who was distinctly of her level. 

“I had begun to think otherwise, Grace” he said and 
in that first intimate reflection of the progress of their 
friendship she felt her whole body quiver, deliciously, 
a sensation poor Coggeshall had never approximated. “I 
had begun to hope our intimacy had imbued you with 
the sense that, however respectful and circumspect my 
attentions to you, you were beginning to realize them based 
on the hopes of a warmer attachment—” 

“Mr. Fleetley—please—please—” aroused to her dan¬ 
ger now that he had approached her from the very point 
she had taken no means to fortify; he had been circum¬ 
spect and he had been cautious—but it had indeed been 
accepted by her with the feeling that it was not to be 
eventually rebuked. She sought to hid her flaming face 
by turning to one side, but he was not to be denied. 

“For if you have not” he ran on brightly, “I am deter¬ 
mined to learn it before I go” still in a tone of repressed 
eagerness, but so masterful as not to be turned aside. 

“But I insist that this is no time for revelations—con¬ 
sider how the world looks upon us—my uncle should be 
consulted—I am not prepared to answer—” 

“On the contrary, you are prepared at any time to wel¬ 
come my attentions or spurn them” he persisted. 

“Then if I must—” with an assumption of dignity ere 
all was lost, at which he took possession of a hand and 
gently vetoed the move for freedom. 

“So I am going to give you the chance” as if she had 
not interrupted. “You must know—that I love you Grace 
—that I have loved you since the day—of this,” meekly 
holding up the mangled hand at which a surge of pity 
swept her soul. “There have been revelations trembling 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


365 


on my lip many a time in the days we met in the com¬ 
pany of Bridget White—God bless her innocent heart—” 
to which “Amen” said her heart— “But the continual and 
more favored presence of him —” he need name no one 
— “deterred me. I wished to know that I had at least 
a fighting chance, I never felt I did, pitted against him, 
but now that the only one I conceded to be a rival is out 
of the way I insist that you dismiss me from the town 
and land—” with a hint of sadness— “with a valid ex¬ 
cuse for your action. I must have a decided answer.” 
Then, while she sought to stem the torrent of words and 
still the tumult of her heart, she knew he must be gratified. 

“I think you have taken an unfair advantage of me” 
she protested weakly. “I have not been permitted a 
chance to analyze my feelings since the horrible change— 
you will afford me this if you consent to accept the 
position tendered by my uncle where he, as well as I 
can assure ourselves indications of character tending to 
confirm past opinions of you—” at which he laughed out¬ 
right and then (to her consternation, but not displeasure) 
seized the other hand and Miss Grace was held in a 
position forcing her to meet his merry glance and ador¬ 
ing regards. 

“Oh I shall accord you all the opportunity to observe 
me that any reasonable human being might demand—but 
first” and she found herself being rapturously embraced, 
“what inducement is held out to a poor working man to 
have himself placed under searching espionage?” Still 
held closely to him, with his dancing eyes so near her 
own she was forced to close them as if fearing the ef¬ 
fects of being dazzled, she quickly decided that in order 
to be rid of this impetuous fellow it would be necessary to 
come into the open. 

“Only the inducement of my esteem” she started to 
whisper softly into the ear nearest her—but the rest was 
lost in a rapturous embrace that might have been strung 
out indefinitely if an actor, who had long since lost his 
cue, had not suddenly decided to make his entry at the 
moment when the spot light was completely “hogged.” 

“Gr’race!” came in the horrified, school master like 


366 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

tones of her uncle and sundering abruptly, the guilty 
pair found itself confronted by the frozen figure of 
Craigie who, standing on the threshold, might easily have 
been convinced and talked into the conviction that he was 
walking in his sleep. Satisfied at length that his naked 
and perhaps dimming optics had failed him he clapped 
his glasses on his nose and shot a frigid gleam from 
behind them full at the abashed lovers. 

“Gr-race! Eh my dear” and could go no further for a 
moment. “Why—tut, tut, what in heaven’s name is this? 
Are ye daft lassie?” the denomination of sudden and 
angry stress. Then he slipped closer to the tongue tied 
pair. “I invited you to my house Mister Fleetley ” with 
cutting emphasis, “to discuss matters of practical account 
—not to play the cavalier to one of its inmates.” Here 
his voice trembled in fond amazement. “Grace, what can 
have come over ye lass?—” She laid a trembling hand 
on his arm. 

“Forgive me uncle” she pleaded, “I could not very 
well have informed you of this before—” 

“I r-rather agr-ree with that!” he burred grimly, “I 
r-rather agree with that sir-r” to the individual studying 
the spots in the immense Brussels carpet, not seeming 
however to the keen eyes of the master to be quite so near 
pulverization as a mere Mill worker should have been, 
caught in the act of making love to his— betters. 

“But I was on the point of going to you to tell you” 
faintly, “that Mr. Fleetley would be on probation in the 
Mill while we decided—that is while I told you that I 
love him—” 

Now all things considered, his age, recent train of 
events and so forth, the Old Man had held up pretty 
well in the latter few weeks, but this new explosion simply 
elevated him mentally and physically. He threw up his 
hands with the gesture of a barn storming tragedian. 

“Merciful God” he prayed in agitation, “what do I hear 
—my own girl that I love better than myself—avows that 
she loves this unknown fellow, this worker, this vagabond 
—” which of course, seeing that he himself had been the 
same sort of vagabond, the same sort of vulgar worker. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


367 


was stating the worst pretty plainly, and by one cal¬ 
culated to strike the high note in the infamy of a man 
daring to strive after those things of earth that he him¬ 
self had gouged out of manual labor. Pretty hard we 
must admit. 

How the dismal tragedy would have terminated, who 
would have yielded, whose the heart that would have been 
broken was never to be known for at that moment there 
came a sudden rush up the Craigie drive as indicated 
by a crashing jangle of sleigh bells, followed by a hur¬ 
ried and emphatic debate in the hall—assuming finally the 
proportions of an altercation—between the pert maid 
and the possessor of a voice that Fleetley straining his ear 
to catch, seemed to recognize, for a broad smile of re¬ 
lief overspread his face and he cast a look of triumph 
at Grace that assured her of immediate cessation of the 
painful tableau. 

There ensued a something composed of a Nova Scotia 
tirade of shrill protests mingled with a throaty, clipped 
“R” insistence along the hallway until the door was gain¬ 
ed—ending only when the aforesaid Nova Scotian so¬ 
prano and the hooked nose and arched mustache and 
monocled eye, heralded by an aristocratic English accent, 
squeezed through the portal together and presented them¬ 
selves to the astonished eye of the bewildered Old Man, 
she with arms akimbo in defiance, he with jerky nods of 
apology and concealed agony about him, to the various 
members as they came within focus of the monocle. Hav¬ 
ing finished its cascade of apology and body inclinations 
the stranger decided to talk. 

“I most humbly beg your pardon Mr. Craigie and yours 
Miss Colquhoun—for this unwarranted and abrupt entry 
into your household—” at which the maid sniffed her tes¬ 
timony that it was accomplished against her will and then 
was signalled to leave the room. “As well as yours— 
your Lordship,” with a magnificent favor toward the grin¬ 
ning Fleetley. 

“Your Lordship!” cried Grace and her uncle in unison 
as their wondering eyes fell upon the so called Fleetley 
who, unable longer to restrain his mirth at this dramatic 



368 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

encounter, dropped into a chair and made the room ring 
with happy laughter. At which, taking time by the for- 
lock, the Old Man decided to sit before he toppled. 

“Your Lordship” again in throaty misery and anguished 
accents, “your Lordship” crescendoing into a bleat of woe, 
“kindly listen to reason, there’s a dear, good sort, do! 
I’m in a rotten fix y’know, me boat leaves in the morn¬ 
ing, y’know, and I’ve sought you all over the blooming 
city, y’know—you must answer or be in contempt your 
Lordship—I’ve a summons from the Master of the Rolls 
—I can’t stay y’know—” at which point Fleetley checked 
his mirth and broke in on the wailing recitation. 

“All right, Thornley, sorry to have caused you this 
trouble certainly, I give you my word I’ll return to Eng¬ 
land to settle the estate—as soon as my wife is ready to 
accompany me!” Thornley, extracted and replaced his 
monocle, cast a deep look of admiration at the blushing, 
bewildered Grace and spoke. 

“Haw—haw—congratulations me Lord—haw, haw!— 
and you Ladyship” with a back breaking inclination in 
her direction, while she turned a turkey red and sought 
to hide her appalled face in the shadow. The Old Man 
still pawed aimlessly about as if feeling for the edge 
of the bed that he might arise and end the dream. 

“All right, Thornley, go ahead and tell it” Fleetley 
demanded; as Grace and her uncle inclined their heads to 
listen breathlessly, the busy attorney unfolded his tale. 

“Rather on this order y’know” he began after a long 
survey from behind his glass and an aggravating one with¬ 
out it, “Mr.—er—Fleetley as he has chosen to be known 
—was a distant relative of the heirs of Bendby; left an 
orphan in early life he was thrown on the er—more or 
less tender mercies of his uncle who, not putting the 
matter too broadly, rather illtreated—am I right your 
Lordship?—illtreated, quite so—” after a bitter confirma¬ 
tory nod from Lance lolling in his chair, “the lad, his 
present Lordship” with another of his comprehensive and 
monotonous obeisances, “so that eventually he was forced, 
actually forced—am I right your Lordship?—quite so— 
to abscond—” 





FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 369 

“Pull up stakes and dig out” harshly, at some cruel 
memory. 

“Er—precisely” although in a diffident tone that show¬ 
ed he didn’t quite catch that Americanism exactly, “left 
home in fact; by reason of the remoteness of the succes¬ 
sion to the title there was no—er—particular pains taken 
to locate him—” 

“Not being a Charley Ross.” 

“Precisely” although he again missed connections on 
that reference, and paused to replace his monocle that 
the full force of the recital might not be wasted on his 
audience—which, as he could plainly see, fairly hung on 
his words. 

“But there now ensued a train of accidents, disasters 
and mishaps so entirely unforeseen and almost incredu¬ 
lous as to make one diffident of relating by reason of 
their repellant melodramatic character; the Earl of Bend- 
by and his brother who, in the event of lack of issue in 
his brother the Earl, was to succeed to the title, went out 
with their regiment to fight the Boers.” Here he made 
another theatrical pause as he removed the monocle—the 
disposition of that oval glass apparently being an index 
to his emotions. “Both fell at Majuba Hill.” Grace 
shuddered. 

“The shock of the announcement brought Lady Bendby 
to bed prematurely and her child was born dead. The 
title then reverted to the mutual uncle of the deceased 
and Mr.—er—Fleetley” putting on the monocle with an 
apologetic flourish for the reference. “The uncle who 
had been—not to bear too harshly upon him—unkind to 
the future Lord—had become er—(not to put the matter 
too coarsely) slightly, due to youthful excess —non com¬ 
pos mentis —” 

“Rather off his alleco peco ” interpolated Fleetley, dryly. 

“Precisely, to be sure” although that expression was 
Choctaw to him. “The estate has been in Chancery while 
the only representative of the name was being hunted down 
to assume the title on the expected demise of the imbecilic 
uncle—” 

“Who took the header a month ago” curtly. 



370 FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 

“Just so,” grasping this because he remembered an 
event that occurred a month before. “We obtained word of 
the heir shortly after the accident, he being recognized by 
a former butler, Billocter, who communicated with the 
British Consul. And that is the story” rising. “Now, 
as I must return in the morning I trust your Lordship per¬ 
ceives the necessity for immediate action” he pleaded. 
Fleetley—or Lord Bendby—shook his head doubtfully 
with a grin. 

“Really it all depends, Thornley.” 

“Beg pardon your Lordship?” angling with the mon¬ 
ocle. 

“On the time Lady Bendby selects to accompany me” 
at which plump, public statement Grace blushed furiously 
and the Old Man reviving slowly, came to her and kissed 
her fondly. There ensued a moment of pretty hesitation, 
for she hated to utter the words that meant a separation 
from him who had been father and mother to her. 

“Say it lass” se cried stoutly, “say it—you love him 
and there is no reason why an old man should stand in 
the way of the happiness of two young people” at which, 
with a cry of mingled joy and regret, she flung her arms 
about his neck and the reserved, dignified Grace consoled 
herself with a good cry. 

“You must promise to come with us” she whispered 
through her tears, “give up the Mill to younger men and 
return with us to the land where you were born—do” at 
which seductive presentation of the matter he took courage 
and made a tentative promise. Then using the pretense of 
a talk with the harried solicitor as an excuse to with¬ 
draw from the room he did so leaving Grace and the newly 
discovered member of the peerage to settle the matter as 
they saw fit. Which after all was not to be accomplish¬ 
ed with the ease an outsider might consider certain. 

“What’s the matter, Grace?” noting her sudden air of 
aloofness; she looked him steadfastly in the eye. 

“Why didn’t you reveal this before?” he laughed, 

“I couldn’t very well under the circumstances.” 

“Indeed?” freezingly. He took her hand despite her 
efforts to prevent him. 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 371 

You told your uncle you could not reveal the situa¬ 
tion to him—•” she bit her lip in vexation—“under the 
circumstance—” 

“But this is different—” 

“Oh, no—I was far from sure when I began to love 
you; had I gone then I would have left the field to a 
rival. In addition, 1 wished to see if you loved me or 
my title” maliciously. 

“Then when you permitted me to deem you a poor Mill 
worker it would have served you right if I had rejected 
you” loftily. He only laughed. 

“Indeed?” 

“As I might have with good grace.” Even that didn’t 
sound very alarming to him. 

“You actually contemplated refusing me did you?” in 
mock severity. 

“I was quite undecided” cooly. 

“All right” he sighed, “it is not too late yet to spurn 
a beggar—” 

“Oh, yes it is” with a disconcerting twinkle in the 
shadowy eyes. 

“You mean— 

“That I can’t give up Fleetley—until I have known 
Bendby better” and a rapturous embrace ended all show 
of doubt. 

The hard working solicitor being mollified by a definite 
promise to return to England at once and thereby relieve 
him of any odium as abetting the absence of a ward in 
Chancery, left to take the Cunarder in the morning; Fleet- 
ley was forced to go to New York to look up some in¬ 
terests of the estate in the west and upon his return learn¬ 
ed that Grace—with the delicacy and tact that character¬ 
ized every action connected with the happiness of another 
—had set their wedding day for the same date as that of 
Val and Bridget White. On the surface, a seemingly in¬ 
significant incident, but as an indication of the tender re¬ 
gard for the sensibilities of those less fortunately situated 
than herself and a desire to compensate everyone who 
had contributed to their particular happiness, it amount¬ 
ed to a great deal. It was the accrued interest of that 



372 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


rare principal engendered in the one time harsh locale 
of the Craigie Mill savoring of a friendship and com¬ 
mon brotherhood that argued only too well for the future 
of the toilers. 

Fleetley sought out Larry whom he had sadly neglect¬ 
ed in the few weeks he was holding the secret confer¬ 
ences with Thornley regarding the estate, desiring to 
learn the final disposition of the Coggeshall matter so as to 
make the faithful fellow an offer to accompany him 
across the water to visit again the spot whence he had 
been driven by a brutal and unjust government. To his 
intense surprise he heard the story that was agitating 
every former haunt of Coleman—he had retired to a 
monastery to end his days as a lay brother. 

Yes, Larry Coleman, the faithful, the gentle, the witness 
of the many sorrows of others, had had enough of the 
“pleasures'’ of the outside world. He had seen two of 
one family gaily enter a whited sepulchre of joy and 
emerge satiated with the festered rottenness within. He 
had seen the devotees of the world drink of the brimming 
cup and draining, throw the dregs away in sheer bitter¬ 
ness of spirit and revulsion of soul. The two beings on 
whom he had lavished all the wealth of his wondrous 
Celtic nature had fallen in untimely ways—too soon— 
too soon to reap the real harvest that each had put aside 
for the evanescent and fading weeds of the world, for 
which they had lived—for which they had died. 

There would be no rending of ties, no tugging at heart 
strings, no vain regrets at this step, for he was ever a 
clean spirited, pure minded, right thinking Christian, al¬ 
ways somewhat of an ascetic, modest, retiring, a true type 
of that Catholicism that rears itself above the ordinary 
dross and to whom the separated brother looks with an 
eye of approval as signifying all that the Church de¬ 
mands, well calculated to take to the cloister, not the 
husks and refuse to offer in His service, but the winning 
traits and prayerful characteristics that had made him 
a brother of men on the outside. 

The world had smiled its last seductive smile for Larry 
Coleman; henceforth he was to devote every act and 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


373 


thought to the service of the friendless, to devote endless 
hours in petitions for those he felt unable to petition to 
the throne of Grace for themselves; he had learned to 
love them devotedly, he must continue in his faithful de¬ 
votion, he would sink to rest with a prayer for them on 
his stiffening lips. Farewell, conquering Larry! 


374 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Mill was shut down again for one day to observe 
a mixed celebration; on the part of “society,” attend¬ 
ance at the high noon wedding of Lord Bendby and Grace 
Colquhoun„ the ceremony being performed at the ex¬ 
pressed wish of her uncle by the Presbyterian minister— 
ostentatiously seeking to placate him even at this late day 
for his senseless contention with him on the score of jus¬ 
tice due the workers. 

“You were right and I was wrong Mr. Buchanan” he 
confessed in meek and manly fashion as they shook hands 
over the happy termination of the feud, “ ‘The man wi’ ane 
eey maun tur-rn aboot t’see baith sides’ ” he quoted; “I 
saw only one side—the side of the oppressor and I give 
you thanks for publicly rebuking me for referring to any 
of God’s creatures as ‘my people’.” The aged castigator 
laughed happily. 

“Ah well” he said, “we have all learned a bitter les¬ 
son; we have proved that the boasted freedom of the 
country is remote when individual freedom is so dearly 
purchased. We have merely changed the garments of the 
earlier persecutors of our fellow men. This marks an 
end of the affair in Fern Park I pray God.” 

“Amen” and reverently bowed his gray head. “The 
trouble with the most of us is we try so hard to be re¬ 
ligious we forget to be human.” 

On the part of the workers the occasion took the form 
of a wild entertainment in honor of Val and Bridget who 
were married in the evening at the parsonage by Father 
O’Connor—still lovingly called pastor—who indeed de¬ 
ferred his departure that he might officiate at this glori¬ 
ous affair. There was a reception at the White house 
participated in by all who could squeeze into its narrow 
walls to feast and dance. There was a table in one room 
loaded down with viands to tempt an epicure—immense 
boiled hams studded with cloves, home baked white bread, 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 375 

relishes, cold sliced cold corned beef, pies, frosted cakes 
and tea galore. In still another room the “keg”—donated 
by the newly discovered lord—was elevated to a position 
of honor where every thirsty dancer might quench his 
thirst. 

Hither came the little cobbler arrayed in more splen¬ 
dor that he affected at any time outside of church, with 
the exception of a collar, and in this, despite the tearful 
pleadings of wife and daughters and scornful adjuration 
of his sons to “brace up and have some style about you” 
he flatly and petulantly declined to environ himself. Out¬ 
side of that he looked perfectly natural and gradually 
working his way to the “keg” he suffered himself to be 
importuned into drinking the health of both brides and 
both grooms—taking his mug with a motion so nearly 
akin to that used in elevating the pegs to his mouth that 
the onlooker almost expected to see him pick the beer 
out of his mouth and peg it into a phantom sole. 

And it would have been no affair at all robbed of the 
glittering presence of the festive Michael who came ar¬ 
rayed in all that glory for which Solomon has been made 
the butt of generations. He was resplendent in a Prince 
Albert, a trifle too loving in some sections and too balloon 
jibbed in others, giving the impression of trying to either 
get in or out in a hurry, a white vest that revealed itself 
when he cast aside the glorious coat to engage in the fes¬ 
tivities, a pair of yellow trousers into which by some 
miraculous interposition he had been permitted to in¬ 
sinuate himself and which effectually precluded any more 
than a very stilted method of locomotion while it made 
sitting down an event to be attended by direst calamity; 
crowning all was an ancient beaver hat wafting a faint, 
elusive ordor that the ribald Mr. Flanigan laid to its be¬ 
ing utilized in the interim of funeral or wedding as the 
lying in chamber and nursery of the family tabby—a foul 
aspersion Mike rejected with the silent scorn it deserved. 
An amazing Picaddilly collar so tight as to give him the 
appearance of popping in and out of it in the moments 
he forced his Adam’s apple to get above or below it en¬ 
circled his neck and contributed a look of agony to his 


376 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


cheery features every time he assayed to turn his neck. 
He came in talking—as usual. 

“Marryin’ is as ye all shud know” he prated owlishly in 
a voice whose thickness suggested a recourse to the bottle, 
“marryin’ is an’ always has been ab ovo —’the’custom as we 
say in Latin” to the gaping listeners, 44 4 fr’m th first tap 
o’th’gong’—f’rm th’days o’th’Garden of Eden—” then he 
permitted his Adam’s apple a vacation in the way of a 
slip over the persecuting collar. 

“All—lil—lil—lue” sighed a buxom widow, 44 An’ why 
don’t ye practice what ye prache, Mike avick?” with a fond, 
insinuating glance that slid by the blinking Mr. Allen for 
he was not (even for the charms of a woman) to be de¬ 
prived of the blessings of his hardly earned and vastly 
prized widowerhood. 

44 Me good crathur” he hiccupped judicially, as he swab¬ 
bed the corners of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger 
after taking a “drop”—meaning about half a mule’s ear 
— “I’m tinder souled, I want t’have th’breakin’o’no hearts 
laid up agin me; if I was t’select some blossom fr’m th’ 
fair parterre o’feminine beauty gracin’ this mundane 
sphere, overflowin’ wid th’milk an’honey as ye might say 
o’good luks an’char-rmin’graces—graces—” in hiccupped 
repetition— “’twould be on’y t’lave th’other tinder flow¬ 
erets t’pine an’ wither in mingled sorrer an’disthress” 
which very flowery elocution rather than elevating him in 
the matrimonial eyes of the fair widow only filled her 
with contempt for a man who would waste time in prat¬ 
tling of flowers when the pragmatic marriage relation was 
the topic. 

But before she could offer anything to offset that the 
fiddler began to drag his bow across the rosined strings as 
indication of his good intentions, and Peter Flanigan took 
to assaulting his accordion by drawing from it wailing 
suggestions of a jig—loud and insistent calls for a quad¬ 
rille ensued from old and young. 

44 C’m on Mike an’call off” someone ordered and nothing 
loath to display any of his talents the complacent Mike 
complied. 44 0ne more couple here—on th’side, that’s 
right—all set Mike me boy—let ’er go Gallagher!” to the 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


377 


musicians who, now that Allen had accomplished the as¬ 
cent of a chair in a corner by a variety of cautious and 
guarded motions accompanied by a surplus of advice and 
persistent shoves from those who did not own the trousers, 
gave a final flourish, and almost simultaneously broke in¬ 
to the teasing strains of the “Irish Washwoman”; the 
dance was on. 

“Salute yer partners” Mike called loudly, “Fir-rst foor 
forward and back—cr-ross over—back agin—balance yer 
pardners—swing—glory Tom—second foor for-ward an’ 
back—y’r right hand t’y’r pardners—salute—balance all— 
swing—ladies change—” and so on till the end when the 
welcome “Shassay all—’round th’hall’ gave the panting, 
perspiring dancers a chance to let up in the mad whirl. Ah, 
that w r as dancing, not the sensuous dips and hugs intend¬ 
ed to arouse anything but physical exertion, but the lithe, 
supple movements taxing both the skill and endurance 
and testing the ability of the best performers. It was 
chaste, innocent, for married and single alike, for old and 
young, no wall flowers those days, no reproaches of con¬ 
science, no suggestive gyrations—all of which possibly 
accounts for its obliteration. 

During the wait while another set was being formed 
someone handed Mike a pretty fair “jigger” of mountain 
dew which he gulped down without the quiver of an eye¬ 
lid, impatiently and scornfully waving away the “chaser” 
as being a something too effete and degrading for a man 
of his judgment and experience. With the completion of 
several sets Mike craved a rest which was afforded him with 
long and insistent calls for a “break down” between old 
Tom Hogan and Mrs. Delaney—that custom made her 
ignore until the demands had become unanimous, which 
not coming right away caused Mike to use the acute knowl¬ 
edge of the sex he had long possessed. 

“Arrah, don’t be botherin’th’poor crathur” he cried 
loudly and in mock sympathy, “sure she’s gettin’too ould 
f’r such nonsense—” and got no further for with an im¬ 
patient snort she threw her shawl aside and bounded on 
to the rough floor. 

“Too ould is it?” she snapped fiercely, “why thin, bad 


378 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


luck t’th’ ship brought ye over I’ll show ye who’s ould in 
this house—give us a chune Pether” and to the immense de¬ 
light and crazy applause of the audience she went at it as 
Peter struck up “Mrs. McLeod’s Reel .” At it she and Hogan 
went to the accompaniment of yells and laughter of the 
crowd who egged her on to beat Hogan, tripping with 
the skill and agility of a girl rather than the mother of 
a family of nine. Back and forth and round and round 
they went keeping pace with the wild strains of the accord¬ 
ion until poor Hogan, his limbs fairly trembling and his 
breath coming in gasps was forced to drop out and admit 
his defeat while she still tapped the floor with skirts raised 
to that discreet height that could cause no comment while 
it revealed the dexterity of her movements. And those feet 
had trodden many a weary mile on the journey of life— 
they were possessed by a creature whose like is seldom seen 
today, whose achievements are fading even as is dimming 
the sturdy faith that animated them in their travels far 
from the land of their birth. 

In the midst of the plaudits her victory had evoked 
there arose a clatter and clash on the outside with a 
jangling of harness chains betokening the approach of a 
pretentious equipage; the front door being thrown open 
there was revealed in the glare of light the Craigie outfit, 
its silver mounted trappings glittering and the blooded 
nags prancing and chafing in their eagerness to move in 
the frosty night. The footman flung himself grandly 
from the box, despite his disdain of the locality, and well 
aware of the sensation he was creating opened, with a 
mighty flourish, the door of the carriage to permit Lord 
Bendby and his beautiful wife to alight. 

Then what a shout went up when the merrv makers 
recognized the man that would always, whatever the British 
peerage might ordain, remain Fleetley, the courteous, the 
honorable, the genial fellow worker; maybe there were 
not hearty grips of the hands and emphatic slapping of 
the back and cries of recognition and joy as they flung 
themselves upon him and almost carried him into the 
house- -but reserving all the time a respectful lane through 
which the laughing Grace proceeded to the door—flushed 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


379 


more with pride and happiness at this whole hearted re¬ 
ception of those who knew and appreciated him best than 
at all the conventional murmurs and well wishes showered 
on him during the reception accorded by the elite at the 
big house in Sunnyside. 

At first Fleetley looked upon it as a joke, laughing and 
calling back as gay as the gayest—then at some sudden 
recollection, perhaps of the life he was quitting forever, 
the smile slowly faded, a mist came into his merry eyes 
and a lump arising in his throat effectually choked back 
the bright responses to the happy well wishes. He had 
really been happy with these people! The crust gained 
by the sweat of his brow tasted finer than the sweet breads 
of the banquet! No, no—poverty is not all the crime it 
is imputed to be by those who have never felt its com¬ 
pensations. 

Bridget and Grace were together in a flash and signifying 
her wish to be alone with her a moment she was led by 
Bridget to an adjoining bed room on the couch of which 
reposed all the wraps of the guests while Peter drew 
agonized wails of “Come Haste To The Wedding” as 
they disappeared; which affecting the dignified Mike so 
strongly he forgot the impending catastrophe to his nether 
garments and leaping to the middle of the floor delighted 
the assemblage by “Breaking her down” to his heart’s 
content. 

Grace locked the little bride within her generous arms 
and thus linked they exchanged a tearful, tender embrace; 
it was a pretty picture and called for all the skill of a 
connoisseur to decide unquestionably to whom the palm 
should be awarded—the timid, shrinking Irish girl with 
her half developed charms or the stately and seasoned 
beauty revelling in her delicacy of contour and warmth 
of coloring. Thus they rested a moment on the edge of 
the bed, each seeming afraid to say the first word. 

“And are you happy dear?” Grace whispered at last; 
Bridget’s upturned orbs alight with the fire of love and 
happy sigh were enough to assure of that without a word. 

“So happy—so happy it can’t seem possible it can 
last” she sighed back happily; “and you?” eagerly ap- 



380 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


praising the blooming face close to her own. That oc¬ 
casioned another enrapturous embrace. 

“So happy” she responded in her mellow tones, “so 
happy—I almost think it a dream—and oh Bridget!” in 
an access of joy, “how much of it I owe to you!” Bridget 
blushed and sought to minimize that but she was insistent. 

“But I never should have regarded you at all if you had 
not first taken a kindly interest in me—me a girl so far 
out of your road—so much in need of a real friend” and 
at memory of the incidents leading up to the necessity 
for that friendship she began to cry softly. Now came from 
the outer room the tender rendition of “Take Back The 
Heart That You Gavest” by Miss Hanlon, the song having 
an interest out of the ordinary on this occasion as a rumor 
had it the little dressmaker had long cherished a tender 
passion for Val—now out of her reach, forever. “The 
good Lord intended you for each other and even the coming 
of—” but Grace silenced her with a shudder of reminiscient 
dread. 

“How much more to his credit it would have been had he 
chosen to recognize, as I always have, the inherent charms 
of all our fellow creatures.” Bridget regarded her happily. 

“Nor must I forget that it was you made Val come 
back—” 

“Lance—I can’t call him anything else—was the main¬ 
spring of that action—he was always thinking of others.” 

“Be sure to convey to him how proud we are of his friend¬ 
ship—” 

“Why, he says the same of you and Val!” 

“Does he?” with a slight, gratified flush on her damp 
cheek. Then ensued the silence of parting—when we have 
so much to say we say nothing, each feeling that despite 
the good intentions they were drifting apart a long time 
—perhaps forever. It was not only that the ocean rolled 
between them but now the conventions of society with its 
terrible demands on the new Lady must intervene and the 
old community of interest be destroyed irrevocably. Only 
in hearts could the friendship be cherished eternally. 

“Write, won’t you—I shall furnish you our address as 
soon as possible—” 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


381 


“And you will answer sometimes?” wistfully. 

“Sometimes?” with a gay laugh, “it will be as regular 
as your Rosary—” but in the very midst of their recrim¬ 
ination and impeachment Lord Bendby appeared at the 
door with a flushed face and sparkling eye occasioned by 
the boisterous reception—perhaps heightened by a visit 
to the kitchen—to make the dread announcement. 

“Train time dear” he called, “append your postcripts 
and finish.” Which they did in the shape of a long and 
happy embrace with murmurs of undying esteem and 
reiterated wishes for mutual happiness. 

“And now” cried Lance when they were back in the 
crowded room again, picking Bridget up by the waist and 
elevating her lightly, “we must observe the customs of 
the country—I shall kiss the bride” and proceeded to do 
so with a gusto while she swung helplessly in air before 
him while the crowd howled its delight and appreciation. 
Suddenly someone yelled for Val—he too must kiss the 
bride—but he, his face the color of a boiled lobster, 
drew back in confusion; it was all well enough for the 
polished Fleetley to kiss a girl with whom he had as¬ 
sociated for months intimately, but to reciprocate on a 
being who had scarcely more than smiled in his direction 
before tonight was asking too much. The crowd held 
him and dared him while Grace, her face wreathed in 
amused smiles, stood in an attitude that would have tempted 
an anchorite; finally, urged on by the convulsed Lord 
Benby she took matters into her own dainty hands. Run¬ 
ning swiftly across the floor to where he stood, speechless 
with fright, she placed two persuaders on the side of his 
face and while the crowd yelled its delight quickly kissed 
him twice on the scarlet cheek. 

“There” she cried in satisfaction, “when the mountain 
wouldn’t come to Mahomet—” at which point she was 
taken in tow by her husband and the guests, making an aisle 
for them, permitted their hasty exit to the carriage. The 
door was slammed to by the important footman—reconciled 
to his vulgar surroundings by the something hot Mike gave 
him—who then scrambled up to his perch, the horses were 
given their heads, the harness jingled musically in the 


382 


FROM THE MELTING POT INTO THE MOLD 


frosty night and to the chorused yells of the audience, led 
by the rheumatic chords of Peter’s accordion, they dashed 
off. As far as a dim gas light illuminated the street the 
head of Fleetley might be seen protruding from the side 
of the conveyance and a hand waved in frantic signals 
as if he were reluctant even in this happy moment to re¬ 
linquish the final tie binding him to a people with whom 
he had spent hours of genuine happiness and among whom, 
for almost the first time in his stormy career, he had found 
unselfish and disinterested friends and admirers. 

Farewell Lance and your beautiful help mate—you are 
that unique and unusual ray of light, gleaming athwart 
the dull hours of a patient people—a light in the wilder¬ 
ness of that set so steeped in its own gloom as to be un¬ 
able to lend a ray to the unfortunate inferiors. 

On with the dance—it is the simple festivity helping 
launch on the broad sea of conjugal felicity a pair that— 
no matter what the vicissitude to be encountered, no matter 
how shoal the shore, how rocky the coast, how undefined 
the harbor—is to initiate a relationship that must endure 
eternally. On with the dance master of ceremonies, honest 

Mike! 


THE END. 






# 





i 









































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































